


Resurrection

by JCBeckett



Series: Resurrection [1]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Movie Spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:32:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 132,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCBeckett/pseuds/JCBeckett
Summary: One hundred years, she thinks. One hundred years of trying to remember the color of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the feel of him beneath her hands. And now here he is.Or, the one where Steve Trevor crashes back into Diana’s life thanks to her new super friends.(Because if the DCEU can bring back Superman, then surely they can bless us with a Steve Trevor resurrection too.)





	1. One

_**November 2017, Gotham** _

Amanda Waller needs a drink.

A stiff one.

A whole damn _bottle_ of stiff ones.

People asked a lot of questions after what happened in Midway City. In exchange for the government’s files on metahumans, Bruce Wayne promised to protect her. And he did, more or less. The people asking questions stopped asking questions, especially when they realized that Lex Luthor had summoned something very bad from somewhere very far away. Apparently the earth under siege by a supervillain that called himself a New God had made her missteps with the Suicide Squad seem small in comparison. Who had time to debate the ethics of implanted nano bombs when the fate of the world hung in the balance?

Personally, Amanda has never had much time for gods. She always considered them glorified fairy tales, variations of Santa Claus that people invented to help them sleep better at night. She’s never had trouble sleeping, so she’s never needed a god. But once or twice when the most recent battles got particularly grim, she may have cast a prayer or two upward in favor of the quintet of metahumans who had tasked themselves with defending earth. When Superman returned, she may have directed a thank you at the ceiling. And when, from the safety of an underground bunker in D.C., she watched a livestream of the six of them destroying the threat once and for all, she thought wryly that if ever she felt the need to believe in something, she may just start with them.

Which brings her back to the present, with a roaring headache and a fierce, nearly unbearable longing for a glass of Black Bull whisky. The Joker broke Harley Quinn out of prison during the chaotic aftermath of the battles. A few days later, Harley sprung Deadshot. And now people are asking questions again, terrified that the next person to be shawshanked will be Lex Luthor, who will summon another being from another world and cause another war before they’ve even had time to total the dead from the first.

If the people asking questions find out she’s the one who pissed off Harley and Deadshot and the Joker, her head will be on a pike. Bruce Wayne isn’t answering her calls because he’s too busy at the moment to _be_ Bruce Wayne—the Batman has his hands full as the apparent leader of what the media has dubbed _The Justice League_ (she can’t even hear that name without rolling her eyes). The six superheroes are now splitting their time between aiding in rescue and clean up and rounding up the thugs and looters who are attempting to take advantage of the chaos. She’s certain that she’s dead last on Bruce’s list of priorities.

She’s watching a video of Wonder Woman and Superman working together to free a group of people from a building when it hits her like a freight train. She doesn’t need Bruce Wayne. She needs the League. She needs their goodness, and the rosy tinge of hero worship that blankets everyone associated with them. If she were in charge of a group of beings like that, then no one would even think to question her links to other, less savory “heroes.”

When the smoke finally clears, the government will want to control the members of the League. That’s what governments do. And if these heroes are anything like their de facto leader, they will _not_ want to be controlled. That’s where she comes in. All she needs to do is pitch her agency to them—soon, before anyone else thinks to do it—as the least-terrible government oversight option available to them. To do that, she will need to pitch herself as a hands-off leader who will let them manage themselves. She will need to demonstrate that she is someone who won’t ask too many questions and will go out of her way to give them whatever they want (so long as they also give her what she wants, but she’ll leave that out of the pitch).

She thinks, at first, that Bruce is her way in. He is their leader, after all, and if she can win him over the rest of them will follow suit. But the more she learns about them, the more footage she watches and reports she reads, the more she realizes that she doesn’t need Bruce.

She needs Wonder Woman.

The Batman calls the shots. But it’s the raven-haired warrior with the shield and the sword that they orbit around. They take their cues from _her_. Batman barks an order and they follow it, but even as they move their eyes dart toward her, as if to check that she’s going to follow him too. In a battle they regroup around her, wherever she is, like magnets drawn to metal. They are all extraordinary in their own right, but each of them is best when they are by her side.

Superman has always been good with kids. But Amanda sees video after video of young children clamoring to be close to Wonder Woman, to touch her, to be on the receiving end of one of her smiles.

Cyborg is half machine, but Amanda sees footage of him slumping down in exhaustion after hours of clearing debris. Wonder Woman, who has been working as long as he has, hands him a bottle of water with an empathetic smile and then continues to work. He watches her, admiration clear on his face, and then gets to his feet.

Aquaman is nearly as feared as the Batman. There’s a cellphone video of him battling a gang of looters who are armed to the teeth. He is surrounded and then Wonder Woman arrives, dropping gracefully from the sky, and together it takes them only a minute to dispatch the entire gang. Afterward, he twirls his trident and claps her on the back in pride. She twirls her sword and gives him a dazzling smile in return.

The Flash is inexperienced and reckless and impulsive. Amanda sees half a dozen videos from the battles and their aftermath of him rushing headlong into a fight where he is vastly outnumbered. Each time, it seems as though he might be bested. And each time, Wonder Woman is there. In at least two of the videos, The Flash doesn’t even help her—he just watches her, his hands on his hips and his smile wide. When she’s finished she turns toward him with an exasperated smile, but the affection is clear in her eyes. Of the entire group, Amanda thinks that The Flash may be Wonder Woman’s favorite.

It’s clear that Wonder Woman is the one that Amanda needs to woo. But the woman is _impossible_ to find. There is no government file on her—at least not one like the others had. She seems to have appeared out of nowhere during the fight with Doomsday, and then disappeared again until the Justice League emerged. There is no name, no family, no country of origin (though Amanda has heard her speak and surmised that she is most likely not from the States). There is nothing definitive, but the file does include an extension. _Possible sightings_ , the heading reads. It is filled with rumors, unconfirmed accounts, and family stories passed down through generations of a tall and beautiful woman who fights with a sword and a glowing whip on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves.

Amanda flips to the earliest account and is surprised by two things: First, it is an official, though very old, form from the British government. Second, it is dated 1918.

That’s the first time Amanda Waller comes across the name Steve Trevor. It is not the last. 

* * *

 

_**December 2017, Gotham** _

Barry Allen is bored.

He’s sitting in a expensively furnished conference room in one of the still-standing towers in Gotham. He was summoned here by a group of very official looking men in black tactical gear, who flagged him down while he was helping a construction crew rebuild City Hall. He was with Bruce at the time, and when the men had flashed their badges and said that the United States military would like to speak to The Flash, Bruce had put his hand on Barry’s shoulder and held him firmly in place.

“About what?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified,” the man in the front said.

“Then I’m afraid he’s not going,” Bruce shot back.

The men glanced at each other.

“Bru—uh, Batman,” Barry had said. (He’s having a hard time keeping track of when to say _Bruce_ and when to say _Batman_ ). “I can totally go—”

“Quiet,” Bruce growled.

One of the men in the back held his hand up to his ear, and then stepped forward. “I’ve been asked to inform you that we’re here on behalf of Director Waller.”

Barry felt Bruce’s grip loosen on his shoulder. “And did the Director say what this is about?”

There was a pause as the man listened again to the comm in his ear. “She said to tell you that she can fill you in as soon as you return her phone calls.”

Barry glanced at Bruce, who looked as amused as it was possible to be while wearing his cowl. Bruce lowered his hand.

“Can I go?” Barry asked.

“Sure.” Bruce turned back toward City Hall, but leaned in and growled in Barry’s ear first, “Watch yourself with her.”

Barry had no idea who the _her_ was and he still doesn’t, because he’s been sitting in this room for, like, an _hour_ and he is so _bored_ he might _die_.

He’s phasing his hand through the solid mahogany table when the door opens and a woman enters.

“Flash,” she greets after she closes the door behind her.

Barry gets to his feet. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of the Bat’s,” she says, offering him a smile. She motions to the chair he was sitting in a moment ago. “Please. Sit.”

Barry doesn’t. “I’d rather stand.”

She shrugs and sits in a chair across the table. “Suit yourself.”

“Batman doesn’t have friends,” Barry says belatedly.

The woman arches an eyebrow. “Aren’t you his friend?”

“Colleagues,” he says, trying to go for the same kind of effortless cool that Diana and Bruce are so damn good at. “But,” he adds, unable to help himself, “If anyone on the team is his friend, it’s me.”

The woman nods, a smile playing over her lips. “My name is Amanda Waller. I’m the Director of A.R.G.U.S., which stands for the Advanced Research Group Uniting Super-Humans. We work with people like you to keep the world safe.”

“Never heard of you.”

“You’re new to the superhero business,” she says in explanation. She tilts her chin down and fixes him with a direct stare. “Right?”

Barry scoffs. “I’ve been around longer than some of the others in the League.”

“Cyborg and Aquaman are new too, at least to the public,” Waller acknowledges.

“I was first,” Barry says proudly.

“First?” Waller asks.

“In the League,” Barry explains. “Bru—uh, Batman recruited me first.”

“Even before Wonder Woman?”

“Oh,” Barry says, deflating a bit when he realizes. “No.”

“Do you know when Batman recruited her?”

Suddenly, belatedly, Barry remembers Bruce’s advice. _Watch yourself with her._ He frowns. “Why do you need to know?”

Waller shrugs. “Just curious.”

She reaches for a remote that’s sitting on the table between them. She points it at the head of the table toward a large projector screen. Barry watches as the screen blinks to life and starts to play a video. He sees himself, nothing more than a red blur, and dozens of what he’s taken to calling (in his head, at least) the _nasty aliens_. (Not to be confused with non-nasty aliens such as Clark, who is really just the nicest guy).

On the screen, Barry watches as one of the nasty guys lands a hard blow. He’s no longer a red blur but a very still, very disoriented speedster on his hands and knees. Barry frowns, trying to remember the moment. How did he get out of this?

The nasty guys are closing in. And then suddenly, like some kind of dark-haired avenging angel, Diana drops from the sky with her feet planted on either side of Barry’s ankles. She crosses her arms and brings her gauntlets together with a clash, and the video washes out into a blinding shade of white.

Barry looks over at Waller.

She smiles thinly at him. “That seems to happen a lot.”

“What does?”

“Wonder Woman saving your ass.”

Barry thinks she means it to be an insult, or maybe an accusation that he isn’t much of a hero, but all he can do is smile. “She’s a goddess,” he says with a shrug.

Waller studies him, and Barry fidgets beneath her gaze. He doesn’t like her much. He can’t wait to tell Bruce about this. And Diana. Diana would _hate_ this woman.

“How much do you know about her?” Waller asks.

“About Wonder Woman?”

She nods.

Barry shrugs. “I know that she’s a good friend and an even better fighter.”

“You respect her,” Waller summarizes.

Barry lifts his chin. “I’d follow her to the gates of hell and back.”

Waller nods as though this is the answer she expected. She slides an open file folder across the table. “Have you ever seen this picture?”

Barry squints down at it. It’s an old picture. Very old. Black and white and faded. In the center stands Diana in her armor. There are two men on her left and two men on her right, and they are standing on piles of rubble in front of what appears to be a town.

“That was taken in 1918 in Veld,” Waller says. “You recognize your friend, I’m sure. Anyone else?”

Barry glances at each of the men’s faces. “No.”

“The man on her right was an American spy assigned to British intelligence named Steve Trevor. The first official government records that seem to describe her were submitted on his behalf by his secretary.”

Barry looks at Steve and the way he stands closer to Diana than any of the other men, his chest seeming to press right up against her back. Barry’s heart sinks. He thinks he knows where this is going.

“There is a very old and controversial World War I historian in Belgium,” Waller continues. “He specializes in legends passed down through the generations. The kinds of stories that people love to hear, but that can’t be corroborated by historical documents or facts. I spoke with him a few days ago.”

Barry lifts his eyes to look at the director.

“He had many stories to tell,” she says, holding Barry’s gaze. “But his favorite is about an angel with a glowing whip and her American lover who liberated a tiny Belgian village from German forces.”

Barry swallows. “What happened to Trevor?”

“He died the day after that picture was taken. Plane explosion.”

Barry glances back down at the picture. He studies Steve Trevor’s face, his broad shoulders, the way he holds his gun with casual ease. Diana’s face is the same as it is now, but there’s something so young about her. He can almost imagine them turning toward each other after the picture was taken, their faces close together as they talked quietly in voices meant only for each other.

Barry closes his eyes, just for a second, and remembers the way his father used to talk to his mother in the kitchen of his childhood home. The way their quiet voices rose and fell over the sound of dinner on the stove, or dishes clanking in the sink. Sometimes his father would laugh, carefree and bright and with a smile that seemed to light his whole face, and every time he did his eyes were always fixed on her.

His father hasn’t laughed like that since before his mother’s death. And try as he may, Barry can’t seem to think of a single time he’s heard the sound of Diana’s laugh.

Barry looks up at Waller. He feels suddenly very tired. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Have you run fast enough to go back in time yet?”

Barry blinks at her. The only person he’s told about that is Bruce, and he knows Bruce wouldn’t tell a soul. So far he’s only managed to go back a few weeks, enough time to watch the final battle and the moments leading up to it from a distance. Bruce is wary of the potential consequences, and Barry has heard a dozen lectures about the dangers of inadvertently messing with the timeline. He already knows all the dangers. They’re the only reason he hasn’t tried running back to save his mother. But still, there’s something about the idea of having the power to bend minutes, days, years to his will...

Waller is staring at him. He hesitates, wondering if he should tell the truth. She saves him the trouble of deciding.

“You said you’d go to the gates of hell for her.”

Barry nods. “I would.”

Waller smiles. “What about back in time?”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Here there be WonderBat. Before you get all scream-y about this being a WonderTrev fic (it is, I swear), try to remember that Steve has been dead for a hundred years and Diana has no idea what Barry is up to. Our girl loved her captain, but she’s not going to spend a century acting like a nun. Besides, I like the idea of Diana actually choosing Steve when he comes back (and him choosing her, too).

_**December 2017, Gotham** _

“Barry,” Bruce says sternly into his phone. “Amanda Waller is _not_ your friend.”

“I _know_ ,” Barry says, sounding exasperated. Bruce can practically hear the younger man rolling his eyes through the phone line. “We’re not getting coffee and trading life stories. She just has some cool gadgets that will let me test my speed.”

“She’s trying to figure out how fast you can run.”

“So? I’d like to know that too.”

“She doesn’t need to know anymore about you than she already does.”

“It’s just my _speed_ ,” Barry all but whines. “What’s the worst she can do with that information, anyway?”

“Sell it to the highest bidder? Use it against you?”

Barry snorts. “I kind of hope she tries. Might be fun.”

Bruce sighs. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“Nope. Not until I play with the cool gadgets. You of all people should understand the attraction a good gadget can have.”

Bruce studies his face in his bathroom mirror, running his hand over his jaw and a shining purple bruise. He can’t remember how he got it.

“Be careful,” he says at last, flipping off the bathroom light as he exits the room.

“Yeah, of course,” Barry says. “Don’t wait up.”

The other end of the line clicks off. Bruce sighs. Barry is always in a rush to do everything—get dressed, eat his food, save the world, hang up the phone. He never says goodbye when he hangs up the phone.

Bruce has tried over the past few weeks to keep an eye on Barry. He views the younger hero as his responsibility since he recruited him to join the League. Alfred thinks that Bruce is projecting, and that Barry is less of a responsibility and more of a do-over. Bruce thinks that Alfred needs a hobby.

Speaking of Alfred, Bruce wonders what’s on the menu for dinner. He heads down toward the kitchen, thumbing through emails on his phone to make sure he hasn’t missed anything vital on the non-Bat side of his life. When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he smells it—whatever’s for dinner, it’s going to be good.

“Alfred,” he calls, rounding the corner into the kitchen. “That smells—”

Diana is sitting on one of the high-backed bar stools at the island counter. One of her legs is folded up against her chest. She’s wearing jeans and a plain white shirt, and her hair is in a loose bun at the base of her neck. There’s a plate of food in front of her, and she has her fork in the air as if she was about to take a bite.

“Diana,” Bruce says in surprise.

She smiles. “Hello Bruce.”

He glances around the kitchen. There are two pots on the stove, and some ingredients strewn across the counter, but no Alfred.

“I thought you were Alfred,” Bruce says.

“So you said.”

He glances around the kitchen again. “Where is Alfred?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Ah,” Bruce says. On Tuesdays, Alfred volunteers in the city. He says it’s the least he can do, since the rest of them spend their days and nights fighting and cleaning up and rescuing people and he spends them worrying about Bruce’s bad back and bemoaning the fact that there is no Wayne heir. (His words, obviously.)

“Is something wrong?” Diana asks, tilting her head.

Bruce frowns. “No. Why?”

“It’s Tuesday,” she says. The beginning of a smirk is starting to smooth over her lips. “According to your _schedule_ ,” she pauses for emphasis, and Bruce remembers immediately the last time that word came out of her mouth. In the days following the battle, they all worked themselves ragged. Alfred suggested taking breaks, but no one would be the first to sit. So Bruce created a schedule, and told them all they had to follow it.

Diana, of course, does as she pleases, which means she refused to be told when to rest. It wasn’t until Bruce pointed out that she may not need a break but the others did—and that they wouldn’t take one unless she did, too—that she agreed to follow his schedule.

“...you and Barry are on reconstruction duty,” Diana continues, “and Arthur and Vic are on patrol. Which means Clark and I have the night off. He’s in Metropolis with Lois. I thought I’d have the house to myself.”

“Oh,” Bruce says. His brain stutters over the final sentence, wondering if it’s a hint. “We finished early, and Barry had...a thing.” He turns back toward the way he came. “But if you’d rather be alone—”

“I wouldn’t,” she cuts him off gently. When he looks back at her, she sets her fork down on her plate and leans her forearms on the counter. “You hungry?”

He glances at the pans on the stove. “It smells good.”

He glances at her in time to catch her eye roll. “Zeus forbid you just say yes,” she murmurs. She rises from the stool gracefully. As she passes by him on the way to the stove, her shoulder brushing his, she says, “Sit.”

He plans to, but first he pulls two wine glasses from a nearby cupboard. He lifts a bottle from another nearby cupboard. When she turns back to him, plate in hand, he’s pouring red wine into one of the glasses. She arches an eyebrow at him but says nothing.

They settle onto their stools, and she starts to eat. He studies the food, and then he sees her stop, fork hovering over her plate as she watches him. He looks up at her. “You make the pasta yourself?”

Another arched eyebrow. “Should I have?”

He shrugs. “Just seems like something you would do. Deflect bullets, steal from billionaires, make your own pasta.”

She snorts out a soft laugh, and he feels warmth unfurl in his chest. He takes a bite, and is unsurprised to find that it tastes even better than it smells—which is really saying something, because the entire kitchen smells fantastic.

“Well?” she prompts.

“I’m not sure there’s anything you’re not preternaturally good at,” he admits.

She hums softly under her breath. “Careful, Bruce,” she murmurs. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” he says into his pasta.

“No,” she agrees.

They eat in companionable silence. Bruce likes this about her. He likes lots of things about her—the way she fights (he’s never seen anyone better), the way she strategizes (he’s never met anyone smarter), the way her eyes go soft whenever Barry tells her one of his rambling stories (he’s pretty sure Barry is her favorite). But what he likes most is her self-possession. She doesn’t speak unless she has something to say. She doesn’t fill silence for the sake of filling it. She is who she is, and she lets others be who they are, even if it means sitting next to them in silence.

With the rest of the League, he feels a sense of duty. He must lead them and lead them well. With Diana, he feels a sense of peace. His myriad masks and identities, all the facades he has to cycle through on any given day, they don’t exist in her presence. He’s just Bruce, and she’s Diana, and sometimes they save the world and sometimes they eat pasta.

When he’s finished, he pushes his plate away. She’s already done. Her leg is folded up against her chest again, one arm wrapped around it and the other resting against the back of the stool as she slowly turns her wine glass in her hand.

“I’m not a particularly gifted singer,” she says.

Bruce looks over at her. “Not particularly gifted is not the same thing as terrible.”

She purses her lips around a smile. “It’s not the same as preternaturally good, either.”

“Point taken.” He lifts his wine glass in her direction. “Cheers to the divine goddess, who has no flaws except that sometimes her voice goes flat during the high notes.”

She smiles, but her lips don’t part. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her smile wide enough to show her teeth. She watches him finish his wine. “And you?” she asks after a moment.

“Me?”

She waits until he looks at her. Their eyes meet, and Bruce feels the warmth in his chest from earlier, only this time it’s starting to spread through his body.

“What can’t you do?” she asks

He sets his wine glass down and turns on his stool to face her. “I am terrible at horseback riding.”

He can tell she’s surprised, perhaps because he picked something that they both know she’s very good at. “You have an entire stable out back,” she points out. “With some really beautiful horses.”

“My grandmother’s,” he explains. “She liked them. My parents didn’t like to ride, and I never bothered to learn. Mostly because I was awful at it.”

“So why keep it filled?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “Not until you showed up.”

He didn’t realize how it would sound. But now, as the words hang in the air and he takes in the startled look on her face, he recognizes the implication. He rubs his hand over his face, trying desperately to find a topic other than the thousands of dollars he spent stocking his stable with beautiful horses for her to ride in between their missions to recruit the rest of the League, and in his rush to end the moment he forgets the bruise on his jaw. He presses on it, winces, and then immediately forces his expression to go blank.

She isn’t fooled. The surprise on her face smoothes into determination. She sets her glass down on the counter and reaches out for him. Her fingers grasp his chin, and she turns his head toward her until she can see the bruise.

“How?” she asks.

“No idea.”

She releases his chin but doesn’t lean back.

“Your disapproving looks are more intimidating than Alfred’s,” he observes quietly.

“I’ve had more practice.”

He wonders, not for the first time, how old she is. Over a hundred at least, judging by the picture from 1918 that he tracked down for her. A century of life, of fighting wars and monsters from other planets and evil men with god complexes, and she hasn’t aged. Her face is smooth and unlined, her skin unmarked by the scars and bruises that dominate his own. He trails his gaze over her lips, up to meet her eyes, and something shivers between them.

There have been moments like this before. Moments when they found themselves standing a bit too close to each other as they studied the monitors in the Batcave, trying to strategize. Once, he’d found her standing in front of the glass case that houses the Robin suit and its angry, yellow letters. She didn’t ask what it was, and he didn’t tell her. Instead she reached her hand out and twined her fingers with his own. He’d thought of her email, _Thank you for bringing him back to me_ , and he’d known then that she, more than anyone, understood loss.

He has never believed in God or gods. But now, as her dark eyes watch him, he thinks of Sappho’s _Ode to Aphrodite_ . If he was a different man he would quote it to her, whisper the words _immortal beauty_ and _love to madness_ with his mouth against her skin. Instead, he lifts his hand and runs his fingertips over her cheek. He waits, half expecting to be flung across the room, but she sits still as stone except for the slow slide of her teeth over her bottom lip. He leans a little closer.

“This is probably a bad idea,” he says in a low voice, a last ditch effort to give her a way out.

She nods. “I agree. It might cut into your brooding time.”

He huffs out a laugh, short and surprised. She smiles. He erases the last of the space between them, chasing her smile, and presses his lips to hers.

* * *

_**February 2018, Gotham** _

Diana wakes with a scream tearing at her throat. She bolts upright in bed. For a moment, she is back in 1918. The bedsheets are not sheets at all, but tanker treads that are squeezing her into breathlessness. It is cold and dark and there is a burst of orange and red above her, a plane exploding and taking with it the first man she ever saw and loved.

Her chest heaves. She closes her eyes, tilts her head toward the ceiling, and reminds herself to breathe.

_Nightmare_ , she thinks. _It is not 1918. It was only a nightmare._

She opens her eyes. Her mother used to comfort her by saying that she needn’t fear her nightmares because they weren’t real. On Themyscira, that was true. But here, in the world of man, it is not. Here her nightmares are memories, reminders that despite her divinity and immortality, she cannot save them all. Steve’s watch, wrapped and carefully stored in her armor, is evidence enough of that.

She turns toward the other side of the bed. It’s empty. She passes her hand over the sheets and finds them cold. Small mercies, she supposes. She doesn’t like the idea of explaining her nightmares to Bruce.

She’d gone back to Paris not long after that night that started with a kiss in his kitchen. Gotham and Metropolis and the rest of the affected cities had cleanup and reconstruction under control, and the League had patrolled the streets long enough that not many criminals were brave enough to try anything. Everyone had gone their separate ways, with the shared understanding that they would come together again when they needed to.

Two days ago—Valentine’s Day, of all days—she’d gotten a call from Barry. He had something to show her, a present of sorts, and did she think that she could catch a plane to Gotham and meet him in the Batcave on Saturday night? He wouldn’t tell her why, but the barely repressed excitement in his voice told her that it wasn’t anything bad. Of course, she’d said. Of course she’d be there.

A few hours later, she’d gotten a call from Bruce. It was not uncommon for them to communicate—they texted and emailed regularly, sometimes about the League, sometimes not. But he had never called her.

“Bruce,” she answered in surprise.

“Are you busy?” he asked.

She surveyed the very, very old piece of pottery in front of her. “Not particularly.”

“I assume Barry called you.”

“He did. Do you know what he’s planning?”

“No idea,” he answered, the exasperation clear in his voice. Diana smiled. Barry’s talent for frustrating Bruce was one of her favorite things about him. “When are you going to fly out?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided.”

“I could send my jet.”

The offer hung in the air, and Diana wondered if it was manners that made him propose it or something more.

“When?” she asked.

“Friday morning. Early, if you like.”

There was another pause. Barry did not expect her until Saturday night, so there would be time to kill. Diana looked at the battered pottery without seeing it.

“I’ve been hearing some rumors,” Bruce said into the silence. “League related. I could use your insight.”

_Liar_ , she thought. But she did not call him on it.

“Friday morning,” she agreed.

When she landed in Gotham, it was Bruce—not Alfred, as she expected—who was leaning against a very expensive car and waiting for her. During their ride to Wayne Manor, they spoke of her work. Over dinner, they spoke of his. After dinner, she followed him down to the Batcave and surveyed the information he’d collected on the “rumors” he’d spoken of over the phone. There was definitely something to them, but it was hardly something that he needed her in-person input on. She turned to him with lifted eyebrows.

“If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have asked.”

He blinked at her. He opened his mouth, mostly likely to argue, and then shut it. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if it wasn’t League related,” he said at last.

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You are,” he agreed. And then he stepped toward her, his hand sliding along the arch of her back, and they didn’t talk much after that.

Diana can still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin. She listens, but he’s not anywhere close by. If she had to guess, she’d say he’s somewhere out on the streets of Gotham dressed as a bat. Insomnia is one of the things they have in common, but she won’t join him on patrol—Wonder Woman doesn’t need to be sighted in Gotham unless absolutely necessary.

She slips out of bed, pulls on some yoga pants and a loose fitting shirt, and heads downstairs. She peeks into the kitchen to see if Alfred is up with tea, but the room is dark and empty. She contemplates making some tea for herself, but decides against it. The nightmare has left her feeling frayed, and she needs to work off some energy.

She hears Bruce before she sees him. The rhythmic sound of his fists hitting a punching bag covers her footfalls, but he notices her quickly. His eyes dart in her direction as he punches, but he doesn’t stop. She watches him, her gaze tripping over the faded white scars on his shoulders and chest. She doesn’t pretend that she isn’t looking, and he notices. He stops punching.

He takes a few steps to the left, onto a mat, and motions her forward. She tilts her head at him and smirks. They both know he doesn’t stand a chance. He smirks back, and crooks his finger at her anyway.

She pins him once. Twice. The third time she eases up and he gets in a hit or two before getting her on her back. He lets go of her and leans back when he realizes.

“Don’t,” he growls.

She flips them in a heartbeat, and his back smacks hard onto the mat, his arms flying outward. She plants her hands on either side of his head and hovers over him. “I wasn’t.”

He rises up to kiss her, one hand on her face and the other splayed over her waist. He kisses her the way he fought with her, methodical but fierce, and the heat of it drills down her spine. She digs her fingers into his shoulders, brackets his hips with her thighs, and kisses him back.

He’s not Steve. But she can’t have Steve. Steve is gone, like so many others that she’s known and loved and then lost, and she learned a long time ago that chasing ghosts only leaves her feeling empty. Bruce is kind, beneath his gruffness. He’s not afraid of who she is, or what she can do.

He’s not Steve. But maybe, at least for now, he’s close enough.

* * *

_**1918** _

Steve Trevor has given a lot of thought to what it will be like to die.

He is a spy, and a pilot, and a soldier, and each of these things has brought him very close to death at one time or another. He’s not afraid of it, per se. He sometimes fears what will happen afterward, if anything even happens at all. He often fears that after the endless chaos of his life, the desperate attempts to make it all _mean something_ , it will end up being pointless.

This, what he’s doing now—he knows this is not pointless. Flying this plane loaded with poison up into the atmosphere is a cruel and painful and unfair way to go, but it is not pointless. The millions of people in London who are sleeping soundly in their beds will get up tomorrow. They will make breakfast and read the paper and go to work and get married and make babies and grow old together, just like they were meant to.

_Diana_.

Steve closes his eyes. He thinks of her face, lit by the firelight in their room in Veld. He thinks of the way her hair smells, the way her skin feels, the way her mouth tastes. He thinks about the way she crossed No Man’s Land, and the way she smiled up at the snow, and the soft husk of her voice when she said to him _you’re awfully close_.

A week ago he would’ve told anyone that love wasn’t meant for a liar/smuggler/murderer. Now he’s right smack in the middle of it, so far gone that he actually considered turning back just because she called his name.

He didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knows that if she were in his shoes, she would do what he is doing now. She would sacrifice herself, even if it meant saving only one instead of millions, and that’s why he’s here. He wants to be worthy of her.

He marvels at the absurdity of it. All that time spent worrying about how he could make it all mean something, and he never stopped to consider that it would be someone else who would make him meaningful.

_Ice cream_ , he thinks. That’s what her life should be filled with once the war is over. Ice cream and babies and snow. Dancing. Love.

Steve has never prayed, but he prays now.

_Please give her what she deserves._

He takes aim, pulls the trigger, and everything goes red.

* * *

_**1918** _

Barry Allen watches from behind a demolished tank as the plane explodes in the sky above him. He hears Diana scream, and though it is not the first time he has been here and heard it, it tears his heart in two.

He turns his eyes to her prone form, trapped on the ground by the treads of a tank, and watches her writhe in grief. He waits, and a moment later she bursts into the air, the atmosphere crackling around her with power and glory and heartbroken wrath. The fact that she wins in the end is of little consolation to her, he knows. It doesn’t mean much to him either, except that it reminds him that without her, the world would be a far darker place than it is now.

“Don’t worry, Di,” he whispers. “Tomorrow’s the day.”


	3. Three

_**February 2018, Gotham** _

“He’s late,” Bruce says, glancing at his watch.  

Diana doesn’t look up from her armor, which she’s cleaning at a table a few steps away. “He’ll be here.”

“You would think,” Bruce says, still annoyed and now pacing, “that asking us to meet him here without actually telling us why—as if we had nothing better to do—would at least make him _attempt_ to be on time.”

Diana smiles. “You would think.”

Bruce stops pacing and studies her. “You don’t mind that he’s keeping you waiting?”

“I’m immortal,” she says quietly, turning one of her gauntlets over in her hand. “I can spare the time.”

There’s something about the tone of her voice—something sad and slightly bitter—that evaporates all the annoyance right out of him. “Do you wish you weren’t?” he asks softly.

She looks up at him. “Sometimes.”

She puts the gauntlet down and smiles, and if he didn’t pride himself on his observation skills he’d wonder if he only imagined her sadness.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” she says. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.”

She brushes past him, but he reaches out and curls his fingers into the curve of her elbow. She stops and glances down at his hand, and then up into his eyes. It’s unintentional—he only meant to stop her from leaving and ask if she was alright—but now all he can think about is the first conversation they ever had. The smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth tells him she’s thinking about it too.

He strokes his thumb over her skin. “Why didn’t you throw me through a wall that night?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin my dress.”

That's not the real reason, but he doesn’t push her. She pulls gently from his grasp and continues toward the elevator.

When she’s gone, he moves over to the table and studies her armor. It’s as old as she is, maybe older, but it’s remarkably well-kept. He runs his fingers over one of the scarlet ridges and wonders whether he’ll ever know her whole story.

She’ll fly back to Paris tomorrow. He won’t ask her to stay because he knows she doesn’t like Gotham. She won’t ask him to come with her because he cannot and will not leave his city. Maybe he’ll visit her. Maybe he’ll start calling her more often, just to hear the lilt of her voice when she says his name the way no one else does.

Maybe he’s too far ahead of himself. There’s no definition for their relationship, at least not the recent, physical part. They haven’t talked about it. He’s not sure she wants to.

A gust of air rushes over Bruce’s back and he smirks, already ready with exasperation.

“About time,” he says, turning around, and then he stops dead.

Barry is there in his red suit, grinning from ear to ear. There are sparks of electricity traveling over his body, vivid in the dimness of the Batcave. Next to him, his elbow gripped in one of Barry’s gloved hands, is a wide-eyed, clearly shocked Captain Steve Trevor.

Bruce gapes at them, stunned into silence. Barry’s smile fades. He glances around the Batcave. “Where’s Diana?”

Trevor jolts to attention. “Diana?”

“ _Barry_ ,” Bruce finally manages to sputter.

“Dude,” Barry says. He throws up his free hand. “She’s supposed to be here. Where is she?”

“What have you _done_?” Bruce growls, stepping forward in anger.

Trevor struggles against Barry’s grip. “Who are you people?”

“It’s okay, relax, we won’t hurt you,” Barry tells the spy. He turns to Bruce. “Seriously, did you chase her away with your _I am the night_ speech?”

That’s the moment Trevor seems to remember he has a gun in his hand. He holds it up to Barry’s temple. “Where am I? Who are you?”

There’s a blur of red, and suddenly Trevor is sitting in a chair and the gun is in Barry’s hand.

“I said relax,” Barry says. Trevor moves as though to rise from the chair. Barry sighs and points the gun at him. “Really, man?” Trevor freezes halfway out of the chair. Barry waves the gun. “Come on, sit down. Don’t make me keep pointing this thing at you. She’ll kill me.”

Trevor’s eyes blaze. “ _She_ who?”

“Barry!” Bruce all but shouts. Both Barry and Trevor turn to look at him. “Did you—” he stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to control his temper. “Did you do what I think you did?”

Barry smiles sheepishly. “Maybe.”

Bruce clenches his hands into fists. “Of all the idiot things you’ve done—”

“Hey!” Barry says, clearly wounded.

“—this has got to be the worst,” Bruce finishes. “What were you _thinking_? You could’ve screwed up the entire timeline!”

“But I didn’t!” he exclaims. “It’s fine! Go check the news, it’s fine!”

Bruce opens his mouth but Barry talks almost as fast as he runs.

“Bruce, listen,” he says, his palms open and placating. “I did the research. They never found his body. It incinerated in the explosion. As long as the plane still blew up because of that bullet, nothing would change.”

“Incinerated?” Trevor mutters.

“What if someone saw you?” Bruce demands.

“They didn’t! Seriously, it’s fine. I ran it a hundred times in the simulator just to be sure. I’ve been planning this for months—”

“ _Months_?” Bruce bellows. He frowns. “Wait. What simulator?”

Barry scratches absently at the back of his head. “Uh.”

Bruce takes a step toward him, rage thundering in his blood. “Who’s idea was this?”

Behind him, the elevator gears whir to life. Bruce freezes.

Barry bounces excitedly. “Is that her?” He steps in front of Trevor, blocking him from the view of whoever will step off the elevator. “Gotta recapture the element of surprise,” he mutters. He shoves his finger in Trevor’s face. “Don’t move.”

Bruce closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Diana hates surprises.

The sound of hushed voices floats into the room. Bruce looks up and sees both Diana and Alfred enter. Diana has a mug in her hands, a curl of steam rising from the top. She smiles when she sees Barry.

“Arrived at last, I see,” Alfred says, nodding at Barry as he and Diana walk toward them.

Diana’s smile deepens. “Something keep you, Barry?”

Barry steps aside dramatically and presents the still-seated Trevor with a flourish. “Surprise,” he says.

Diana’s face goes white as a sheet, and the mug in her hand slips from her fingers and shatters on the floor.


	4. Four

The sound her mug makes when it shatters on the floor is earsplitting, but it’s nothing compared to the silence that comes after. For a moment, Diana is reminded of that night in 1918—of the ringing in her ears when Steve found her on the pavement, just before he told her he loved her and then left her forever. 

Except now he’s  _ here _ . The world spins. She takes a step back, reaching out to Alfred to steady herself, and he holds onto her tightly. Everyone is staring at her, but all she can focus on is the man across from her who is rising slowly from a chair, the man wearing Steve Trevor’s face. 

“Diana,” the man says. He says her name like a prayer, breathy and quiet, and it’s the same voice as that night in Veld. She blinks hard, squeezing Alfred’s arm even tighter, because she can almost feel the snow on her face again. 

He starts toward her, a smile breaking out on his lips, and that’s when it hits her. 

_ Steve is dead, your Steve is dead, this is not your Steve.  _

She has her lasso out in an instant and sends it whipping across the room. It wraps around the man’s chest multiple times, pinning his arms to his sides, and he looks down at it and then up at her in confusion. 

“Who are you?” she demands.

“I’m Steve,” he says, holding his hands out. 

The lasso glows, warm in her palm, but he does not cry out in pain. She tugs hard and he staggers forward, falling to his knees. She pulls again and the lasso squeezes tighter around him, his shoulders curving inward. The cord glows brighter, practically singing with heat, but it’s a different kind of heat than she’s ever felt from it before. 

“Diana,” Bruce says.

“Back off Bruce,” she snarls. 

Bruce goes still. Barry reaches for the lasso but seems to think better of it. His hands flutter back down to his sides. “It’s Steve,” he says, his voice pleading. He sounds like a small child. “Diana, it’s Steve.”

“Steve Trevor is dead,” she says savagely. 

She glares at the man on his knees before her. He gazes back at her, his brows furrowed and his mouth parted slightly. His hair falls across his forehead, and her heart twists in her chest. She pushes away the longing that’s suddenly sweeping goosebumps over her skin.

“He died in 1918,” she continues. “I saw the plane explode with my own eyes. I watched him—”

She stops abruptly. She does not cry in the presence of others. Certainly not in front of Bruce Wayne and Barry Allen. But grief—fresh and cruel because of the blue eyes staring up at her after a century of absence—has a stranglehold on her throat. 

“I watched it,” she finishes.

Neither Bruce nor Barry says a word. The man with Steve’s face continues to gaze at her.  _ One hundred years _ , she thinks. One hundred years of trying to remember the color of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the feel of him beneath her hands. And now here he is. She looks him over and realizes he’s wearing the same clothes he wore that night, the same German uniform that he wore when he pressed his watch into her hands and then ran from her without looking back.

“Who are you?” she asks. She means it to be a demand, but the fight has gone out of her.  

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, which pulls against her grip of the lasso. “Captain Steve Trevor,” he says proudly. “American Expeditionary Forces. I crash landed on Themyscira and you pulled me from the water. I took you to London, and then to the front. I watched you cross No Man’s Land.” His face softens. “It was the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath and the sight of his chest lifting and falling under the glow of her lasso reminds her that she needs to breathe, too. She inhales, tries to fill her lungs, but it doesn’t work it’s not enough she can’t breathe. 

“I taught you how to dance in the snow,” he says. His voice is gentle. “And last night in Veld was the best night of my life.”

His face flushes, as though he hadn’t meant to say the last part. The lasso glows. He’s not lying. The ache in her chest is unbearable.

“You got on that plane,” she whispers.

“I got on that plane,” he echoes. “And I pulled the trigger. I should be dead.” He glances around the Batcave. “But I’m here instead. Wherever that may be.” 

Diana finally looks at Bruce.

“Barry ran back to get him,” Bruce explains quietly.

“What?”

Bruce casts his gaze toward Barry, and Diana shifts her attention to the speedster. Barry bounces anxiously on the balls of his feet. “I’m fast enough to run through time,” he says, and it almost sounds like a question. “So I ran back to 1918 and got him back for you.”

“Huh,” Steve says. “Time travel. That’s a new one.” Diana looks down at him. “What year is it?”

“2018,” Diana answers.

Steve’s eyes go wide. He blinks. “Well shit.”

The way he says it is just so _Steve_ , and she feels the smile pulling unbidden on the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’s spent the past hundred years running from him and toward him, trying to honor his memory without shattering under the weight of what mortal doctors call survivor’s guilt. Sometimes she closes her eyes and thinks that if she knew what was on the other side of death, if she knew for sure that she could wrap her arms around him again, she’d willingly give herself over to Thanatos. But Thanatos is gone, and Hades too, and Sameer and Chief and Charlie and Etta and Steve, _Steve_ , and she’s all that’s left. 

Except here he is, kneeling before her the way he did all those years ago on Themyscira when she didn’t know anything of the world. She thinks she loved him then. She didn’t understand why he lied but when he spoke of the war, of the children dying and his duty to end it, she loved him. She loved him more in the caves, and on the boat, and in that alley and in that bar and in their bed at the inn in Veld. She loved him more and more and more until he was gone and she thought it would stop when she lost him but it didn’t. It never stopped. 

Diana walks toward him, the lasso loosening on the way. He watches her, making no move to rise. She lowers down to her knees before him so that they’re eye to eye. She studies his face, the flop of hair over his eye, the strong cut of his jaw, the blue _ so blue _ of his eyes. 

“Steve?” she says. 

He smiles at her, a crooked thing that she hasn’t seen in a hundred years except in her dreams. “Yeah.” 

She flicks her wrist, and the lasso falls away from him. She uncurls her fingers and lets her hold on it go too, and it drops to the floor. She lifts her hand, presses it against his face. His blue eyes are wide and bright and she can feel the joy building in her chest, threatening to crack her right open.

“You look good for one hundred,” he says, his eyes darting down to take her in.  

“You look terrible,” she says, pushing his hair back. 

He grins at her. “Cut a guy a break, will you? I traveled through time to be here.” 

She puts her hands on his chest, runs her palms over his shoulders, down and then up his arms, back up to his face. 

“Steve,” she breathes, her voice breaking on the word. She can feel the tears sitting hot behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes shining too. “I know.”

And then he’s kissing her, his hands on either side of her face, and she’s kissing him too, desperately, feverishly, like it’s the only thing she knows how to do.


	5. Five

Steve’s done some pretty spectacular things in his life. He’s ridden a camel across the deserts of Egypt. He’s eaten breakfast beneath the Eiffel Tower. He’s steered a ship down the Mississippi River and watched the sunset on the Italian coast. Most recently, he traveled a hundred years into the future with some guy in red who apparently runs faster than time itself.

None of it holds a candle to kissing Diana. 

She tastes like peppermint and smells like flowers and he decides that this is really the only thing he’d like to do for the rest of his life, thank you very much. She’s kissing him with abandon, her hands curled into the collar of his German uniform, her body flush against his. He wonders if she can feel the thud of his heart against her chest.

For a brief, terrible moment, he wonders if it’s just a dream. If he’s going to open his eyes and find himself back on that plane with a gun in his hand and a job to do. But when she leans away from him at last and he opens his eyes to see her face again, her eyes bright with unshed tears and an expression that could only be described as unadulterated joy, his heart shudders in relief. 

She leans forward, her forehead brushing his, and he closes his eyes. “Steve,” she says.

He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a sudden, very loud alarm. He jumps up, pawing at his side for a gun that he doesn’t have. 

Diana is on her feet next to him in an instant, her palm pressed over his chest and her fingers curled around his arm. He looks at her, eyes wide, and she holds his gaze. “It’s okay,” she says. 

The volume of the alarm dips into something less deafening, but it doesn’t calm his nerves. He focuses on Diana’s hands on his body, and takes a deep breath. He nods. She lingers, her eyes searching his face as if to make sure he’s okay, and then she turns away from him.

The guy in red— _ Barry? _ Steve wonders, trying to remember.  _ Harry? _ —and the guy Diana called Bruce are standing in front of large black boxes that seem to have moving pictures and colored shapes on them. Diana joins the men, her eyebrows furrowed. 

“What is it?”

“The Joker,” Bruce mutters, frowning. “With hostages.”

A chilling cackle fills the room, and Steve glances around, trying to locate its source. “Does the Batman want to come out and play?” a disembodied voice sings.

Steve looks back at Diana, but her eyes are fixed on the boxes. She points to another one. “Bruce,” she says. 

Bruce follows the direction of her finger, and then his face hardens. Steve looks too, and sees a woman with very odd hair. Another disembodied voice echoes through the room, this time a woman’s, and that’s when Steve realizes that it’s the boxes—and the people inside them—that are speaking.

“Batsyyyyy,” the woman calls. “I’m lonely. Come keep me company. I promise I’ll be good.” The woman laughs, and Steve shudders at the sound of it. 

“They’re on opposite sides of the city,” Bruce growls. “It’s a set up.”

“I’ll get her,” Diana says, moving toward a nearby table. “You get him.”

“No.”

Diana turns back to Bruce, her eyebrows raised. Steve glances between them. He knows that look. Diana doesn’t like to be told no.

Bruce gestures at Steve but doesn’t look at him. “You should stay here. I’ll take Barry.”

Diana opens her mouth, but Barry gets there first. “Actually, she  _ can’t  _ stay here.”

Bruce turns toward him. “Why not?”

Barry gestures at some more of the boxes. “There are four—nope, five—scratch that,  _ six  _ bank robberies happening. Probably planned diversions. I can stop them all, but I can’t do that  _ and  _ go face down Harley Quinn.” He smiles. “You’re gonna need Wonder Woman.”

_ Wonder Woman? _ Steve looks at Diana and thinks of No Man’s Land and the battle for Veld.  _ Suits her _ , he decides.

Diana tosses a smug look at Bruce. “I’ll change.” 

Steve recognizes the armor she pulls off of the table, and he watches her as she disappears around a corner. Bruce watches her too, and then he turns back to Barry with a glare.

Barry grins at him. “Don’t you need to suit up too?”

Bruce’s answering expression is murderous, but Barry seems unfazed. Bruce stalks in the same direction as Diana, muttering under his breath, and suddenly Steve is alone with Barry. 

Barry turns to look at him, still grinning. “They don’t show the changing part in the movies.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“Nevermind.” He bounds forward and holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Barry Allen.”

“Steve Trevor,” Steve says, shaking his hand. “You uh…” He moves his fingers in what he hopes looks like a running motion. “You run fast?”

“Yep,” Barry says, beaming. He leans toward Steve conspiratorially. “Some of the others will tell you that Clark is faster than me, but Diana says they only do that to get under my skin.”

The way Barry says  _ Diana  _ is so familiar and affectionate that Steve is a little taken aback. “The others?” he asks. 

“Oh,” Barry says. He smacks his hand on his forehead and laughs. “Right. You don’t know us. We’re the Justice League. Superheroes unite!” He punches a fist in the air, then points at himself. “I run fast. Vic is a robot—don’t tell him I said that—and Arthur can breathe underwater. And Clark is an alien that can fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes.”

Barry pretends to shoot things out of his eyes with his fingers. Steve gapes at him. 

“There’s other stuff we can do,” Barry adds. “But that’s the gist.” 

“What about…?” Steve motions in the direction that Diana and Bruce disappeared to. 

“Oh, Bruce,” Barry says brightly. “Bruce is Batman.”

“He’s...he’s a bat?”

“Nope. Just a rich guy that dresses like one.”

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled by that assessment,” a cool voice says to Steve’s right. 

Steve turns and sees the older man who arrived with Diana earlier. 

“May I suggest you get started on those six bank robberies?” the man says to Barry.

Barry grins. “On it.” 

There’s a gust of air, and then suddenly Barry is gone. Steve looks around the room, but he’s nowhere in sight.

“Shit,” Steve mutters.

“It takes some getting used to,” the older man says.

Steve nods. “No kidding.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Steve.”

The man does not shake his hand, but he does bow a little. “Alfred.”

Steve stands awkwardly with his hand out, and then slides it just as awkwardly into his pocket. “Are you uh...in the Justice League too?”

“No,” Alfred says with a chuckle. “I work for Master Wayne.”

Steve’s about to ask who the hell Wayne is and why he’s a master when Diana reappears. Steve can’t help but stare. She’s got her boots on, and her armor, and the diadem sitting on her forehead. She’s fiddling with one of the gauntlets on her arm. 

He never thought he’d see her again. But here she is, looking just like she did the last time he saw her, and he thinks maybe he’s forgotten how to breathe.

When she looks up and meets his gaze he’s certain that his mouth is open, and that she’s going to ask him why he is unabashedly staring at her. She smiles instead, and stops in front of him. She reaches for him, smoothing her thumb over his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “You must be very confused.”

“On a scale of one to crash landing on Paradise Island, I’d say we’re at a solid nine-and-a-half.”

She smiles wider, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement, and Steve wonders if it’s inappropriate to tell her that she’s beautiful in front of Alfred. She steps closer. “I want to answer every question you can think of,” she tells him, her hands resting on his chest. “But right now I have to—”

“Save the world?” he supplies.

“Something like that.”

Steve casts a glance at Alfred. “She do that a lot now?”

“Quite often,” Alfred confirms.

“Sacred duty of the Amazons and all that,” Steve says, winking at her. “Can I help?”

The smile falls from her face. She looks down at her hands on his chest. “I don’t think—”

“I think you’ll find the world is a very different place than when last you were in it, Captain Trevor,” Alfred interrupts smoothly. “Might I suggest that you stay behind for the night and learn a bit more about it before you venture out to fight at Miss Prince’s side?”

Steve’s really not crazy about the idea of Diana going off to fight creepy disembodied voices with smiley Barry and grumpy Bruce while he sits at home twiddling his thumbs. He’s about to say so, about to point out that surely shooting a gun and punching people in the face and doing whatever Diana says can’t be  _ that  _ different, when he catches a glimpse of her face. 

She’s scared. He’s seen a lot of expressions on her face. He’s never seen her look afraid. 

“Next time then,” he says softly, and she looks so relieved that he reaches for her, his hand brushing over the gold of her armor around her waist. “Alfred can catch me up on what I’ve missed.”

“No planes until I get back,” she murmurs.

“Deal.” She’s smiling again, wide and bright and breathtaking, and he’s helpless against the urge to trace his fingertips over her lips. “Be careful.”

She purses her lips and kisses his fingers. “Deal.”

She turns away from him just as Bruce reappears, wearing black from head to toe. Steve nearly swallows his tongue. “So Barry wasn’t kidding about the bat thing?” he mutters to Alfred, eyeing the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest.

“No,” Alfred says, amused.

“Need a ride?” Bruce asks Diana, his voice even gruffer than before.

She slides her sword over her shoulder and then reaches for her shield. “Just out the door. I’ll fly the rest.”

Steve chokes. “You can  _ fly _ ?”

Diana casts a stunning smile in his direction, and then disappears down a flight of steps with Bruce just behind her. Steve jogs down after her. When he gets to the bottom of the steps, he’s just in time to see her leap onto the top of a monstrous black machine that roars like a plane as Bruce climbs inside it. Diana crouches, her armor glinting with the movement, and then the machine hurtles forward with Diana still on top of it, her dark hair streaming behind her.

Steve stares after them, even once they’re out of eyesight. “You weren’t kidding about the different,” he says.

Behind him, Alfred chuckles. 


	6. Six

Diana is really not a fan of Harley Quinn.

She’s heard stories from Bruce and seen the news reports, but this is the first time she’s actually seen the former psychologist in person.

Harley, with the aid of some creepily masked men, has taken charge of the Gotham opera house and interrupted a performance of Aida. Diana crouches in the metal framework above the stage and watches Harley prance around the set amongst the actors and her hired muscle, swinging a graffiti covered wooden bat at various props. A very large machine gun is slung over her shoulder.

“Batsy sure does take his time, doesn’t he?” she coos at the actor dressed as Radames. She leans down into his face. “Maybe I oughta shoot you and see if it hurries him up.”

Diana lands on the stage behind Harley noiselessly. A murmur erupts through the audience, and Harley spins around. Her eyes widen.

“You’re not Batsy.”

Diana smiles. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“ _Definitely_ not disappointed,” Harley says, her eyes trailing from Diana’s feet all the way up her body. Harley snaps her gum when their eyes finally meet. “I don’t suppose you’d let me see what’s under that outfit.”

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” Diana answers, hands on her hips. “How about we skip the flirting and let all these people get back to their show.”

“Don’t like girls?” Harley asks.

“Don’t like criminals,” Diana corrects.

“Too bad,” Harley says, and then she slings the machine gun around to the front of her body and starts shooting.

Things get a bit crazy after that. There are bullets, and grenades, and some type of smoke bomb that Diana thinks is supposed to hurt her but obviously does not. Harley and her goons aren’t a particularly challenging fight, except for the fact that there are about two thousand innocent audience members close by who actually _can_ be hurt by the smoke, bullets, and explosions, and so Diana has to be very careful which way she sends her deflections.

By the time she knocks out each of the goons and snags Harley with her lasso hard enough to bring the woman to her knees, the entire stage is on fire from the grenades. There’s an ominous creaking, and both Diana and Harley look up to see a long metal frame with stage lights hurtling downward.

Diana curses in Greek under her breath and then leaps forward to catch it before it can smash Harley flat.

“My hero,” Harley purrs, batting her eyelashes, and then her face morphs into a vicious snarl. She tugs violently on the lasso, trying to get free, but Diana only rolls her eyes, still holding the lights and the lasso with ease.

A rush of wind ruffles Diana’s hair and suddenly Barry is there, grinning. “Need a hand?”

Diana aims a swift kick at Harley’s chest, and the woman falls over flat and gasping. “No,” she answers Barry. “Unless you want to put that fire out.”

“On it.”

Gotham PD bursts in the door just as Diana tosses the lights aside and Barry finishes with the fire. Diana smiles at the first cop to mount the stage. “She could use a pair of handcuffs,” she says, gesturing at Harley.

“You can put handcuffs on me anytime you want,” Harley says, leering up at Diana.

Diana rolls her eyes again.  

“Guys,” Bruce’s voice growls in the comm in her ear. “All of them are diversions. Get to LexCorp, now.”

“May I offer you a ride, my lady?” Barry asks, bowing low and holding out his hand.

Diana smiles. “Such a gentleman.”

* * *

 Later, in the parking lot of LexCorp, Diana catches Bruce’s eye as he’s talking with Commissioner Gordon. Bruce excuses himself, and heads over to meet her.

“What were they after?” she asks when he stops next to her.

“Data, but we’re not sure what kind yet.”

“Gordon’s not sure,” Diana says. “You know.”

Bruce isn’t surprised that she read him so well, though it does leave him feeling a little exposed. “Metahuman data,” he tells her.

Diana’s expression tightens. Bruce knows she’s thinking of the others in the League, of her own Luthor-created file that was on the drive she’d stolen.

“Bruce,” she says, her voice low.

“I’m taking care of it,” he promises. “How was it with Harley?”

“She’s...interesting.”

Bruce smirks. “She hit on you?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Can’t say I blame her.”

He expects a smirk, but Diana’s face flushes instead. _Trevor’s back_ , he remembers belatedly.

“Sorry. Old habits.”

He can see her watching him from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t look at her. “We should talk,” she says.

“Batman,” the commissioner calls. They both turn to look at Gordon, who waves for Bruce to join him.

“It’ll be a late night,” Bruce says.

“Tomorrow,” Diana counters.

Bruce nods. “Tomorrow.”

* * *

 It’s well after midnight when Barry and Diana get back to the Batcave. They’ve barely gotten in the door before she’s already starting toward the staircase, probably eager to see Steve. Barry hesitates, not wanting to keep her, but he ends up blurting the words out anyway.

“Hey, Di?”

She turns.

“Are you mad?”

“Mad?” she echoes, tilting her head.

“About, you know…” He waves his hand. “The whole running back in time without your permission thing.”

Her expression softens, but he keeps talking.

“I know Bruce is mad. _Real_ mad. He knew I could go back, but he kept telling me I could never do it—you know how he is, _Barry you can’t_ ,” he says mimicking Bruce’s voice. “But when I saw that picture—”

“What picture?” Diana interrupts.

“Uh,” Barry says, scratching his head. “Of you and Steve. Back in 1918?”

“Did Bruce show that to you?”

“No. It was, uh...you ever heard of A.R.G.U.S.?”

Diana looks suddenly stern, and though it’s not nearly as nasty of a look as those he gets from Bruce, it’s somehow worse. “Does Bruce know you worked with A.R.G.U.S.?”

“Sort of?”

Diana stares at him.

“I mean, I didn’t _tell_ him,” Barry says. “But he probably put it together. World’s greatest detective and all that.”

“Tomorrow, the three of us are going to have to talk about what exactly their involvement was,” Diana says. She sounds eerily like Barry’s mother did when she used to say _We’ll talk about this when your father gets home._

“But you’re not mad,” Barry pushes. “Right? Because I don’t want you to be mad. You’re the only one who…” he trails off, and he can feel his face grow hot. He shrugs. “I’m sorry. If I overstepped.”

Diana moves toward him. Barry watches her warily, and wonders whether he’s about to find out what it’s like to get slapped by Wonder Woman.

“Your presentation was a bit overwhelming,” she admits, stopping before him. “A little more warning would have been nice.”

Barry nods. “Right, yeah, no more surprises. Got it.”

She smiles. “Barry, what you did for me was…” She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

Barry’s throat feels suddenly tight. He tells himself it’s empathy because he can see that her eyes look wet, like maybe she might cry. But when she puts her hands on either side of his face the way his mother used to, he realizes it’s not just about her. This is what he’s wanted since the moment he heard about Steve Trevor and thought of his parents. The smile on Diana’s face, the joy in her voice—he wanted to give her the second chance he can’t give his dad.

“Thank you for bringing him back to me,” she whispers.

If Barry cries a little when she hugs him, neither of them acknowledge it.

* * *

Diana finds Alfred in a chair before the fireplace in the living room, a book in his lap and a mug of tea on the table next to him.

She furrows her eyebrows at him, and he nods at the couch. Diana moves forward, peers over the back of the couch, and finds Steve sprawled across the cushions, fast asleep.

The sudden wave of happiness that passes over her is so staggering that she has to curl her fingers around the frame of the couch and close her eyes. The fabric starts to give beneath her grip, and Diana catches herself at the last second and loosens her hold before she can rip a hole in the couch.

She doesn’t regret leaving him to go after Harley. Steve, mission-driven as he is, would have done the same. But the entire time she was gone, all she could think about was coming back. She wonders whether it will always be like this, or whether eventually Steve will insist on fighting by her side as he once did.

She already knows the answer.

Alfred rises from his chair and makes his way toward her. “He wanted to wait for you,” the older man says softly, stopping next to her behind the couch. “But he fell asleep about an hour ago.”

Diana nods. “He didn’t get much sleep the last few nights.”

“I imagine not, considering he was in the middle of a war.”

Diana thinks about that last night before the plane explosion, and how Steve’s lack of sleep was largely her fault. She opts to keep that to herself.

“For someone who traveled one hundred years into the future, he seems to be adjusting remarkably well,” Alfred observes.

“He’s a spy. Adapting to his surroundings is a job requirement.”

“As is the ease with which he learns new things, I suppose.”

Diana finally looks away from Steve’s sleeping form to give Alfred a questioning glance.

“We started a crash course in modern technology,” Alfred explains. “We began in the kitchen, where we covered modern refrigeration, ovens, microwaves, and the coffee maker. Your captain is very fond of coffee. And Mr. Allen’s Cheetos.”

Diana grins at the mental picture of Steve, his fingers covered in orange dust, carefully pressing the buttons of the coffee maker and then grinning in triumph when it started to brew. She wishes she could have seen it.

“He discovered Master Wayne’s laptop next, but our brief lesson on the internet came to a screeching halt after his discovery of YouTube.”

Diana frowns.

“YouTube has quite the collection of Wonder Woman videos,” Alfred notes dryly.

Diana looks down at Steve, her heart clenching in her chest, and sees the still open laptop next to him. The desire to touch him is unbearable, and though Alfred is watching her, she decides she doesn’t care. She bends over the back of the couch and runs her fingers through Steve’s hair.

“Yo, Alfred, where my Cheetos at?” Barry says, bursting into the room.

Diana lifts her eyes to give the speedster a death glare, and Barry freezes.

“Oops,” he says quietly.

Steve shifts beneath Diana’s hand, but doesn’t wake up.

“Sorry,” Barry hisses. He looks down at Steve, then grins up at Diana. “So cute,” he mouths, slapping a hand over his heart.

Diana tries very hard to maintain her glare, but she fails. “Good night Barry,” she says pointedly.

He winks at her and then disappears.

Diana straightens. “Thank you for keeping an eye on him,” she says, turning toward Alfred. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Far less trouble than Master Wayne with a hangover,” Alfred says with a smile.

Diana bites her lip around her own smile. “That’s not saying much.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s not.” Alfred’s expression turns serious. “You know you’ve been given quite a gift here, Miss Prince.”

Diana has long since given up asking Alfred to call her by her first name. She nods and looks down at Steve. “I know.”

She thinks of Bruce: of the way he had tried so hard for so long not to kiss her, and of the way he’d seemed surprised but shyly pleased when he realized that she had known there was no League business but had come early to see him anyway. She doubts that Bruce has told Alfred about their nights together, but she’s certain that Alfred knows anyway.

“I fear it’s come at Bruce’s expense,” she confesses quietly.

Her words hang in the air. Neither of them look at each other.

“He won’t begrudge you your second chance,” Alfred answers.

“I know. He’s too honorable.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see Alfred glance at her. “That word isn’t often attributed to him.”

“He works hard to make sure it’s not. But I’ve lived too long to see him for anything other than what he is.”

Alfred makes no response. The fireplace crackles before them, the only sound in the room. Finally, Diana turns to face him.

“If I was just another dalliance,” she starts. She doesn’t finish the thought, but she knows Alfred understands. If it was just a release of the sexual tension that had hummed between them from the start, just proximity, or curiosity, or the recognition of a kindred spirit, if there weren’t feelings involved...

“If indeed,” Alfred murmurs.

There’s no accusation in his voice, no animosity, but the admission hits her like a blow anyway. Diana closes her eyes. One hundred years in the world of man, trying desperately to prevent pain, and now she will be the one causing it for someone she cares about.

“I fear it’s far past my bedtime,” Alfred says quietly. He turns to leave, but Diana reaches out and catches hold of his arm.

“Alfred.” He turns to look at her. “I never meant to hurt him.”

Alfred puts a weathered hand over her own and gives her a kind smile. “You’ve thought of others long enough, Miss Prince. It’s time to think of yourself.”

* * *

 Steve wakes with a start, heart pounding and body drenched in sweat, with Diana’s name on his lips.

He sits up. He’s on a couch in a room he doesn’t remember, across from a dying fire in an ornate fireplace. There’s a blanket spread over his bottom half. He’s wearing clothes that aren’t his own.

“Steve?”

He turns toward her voice. Her figure moves toward him in the darkness of the room, graceful and silent. She crouches next to the couch and reaches for him, her hand smoothing over his face. He leans into her touch and closes his eyes.

“Do you remember where you are?” she whispers.

It comes back quickly. The plane. The gas and the gun. Barry and his red suit. Time travel. Diana.

“2018,” he whispers back.

Her hand strokes back into his hair, and then along his cheek again. He covers it with his own and turns his face so that he can kiss her palm. She runs her thumb along his bottom lip.

“What did you dream of?”

He wonders, not for the first time, how it is she understands him so well after such a short time. So many details they don’t know about each other, so much history and baggage, and somehow he still feels as though she’s always been a part of him. Maybe he should love her less than he does, considering the time. But he’s never been the kind to do what he should do just because he should do it.

“Orange gas,” he tells her. “And your face when you realized you couldn’t save them.”

He opens his eyes at last. The fire behind her makes the outline of her body seem to glow, and he remembers falling toward the bottom of the ocean after he crashed and looking up, seeing her standing on the wing of the plane and thinking _angel_.

There’s sympathy in her expression, compassion in her eyes, and it’s too much for him.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I’m sorry I stopped you from killing Ludendorff. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about Ares.”

She drops her hand from his face, but he folds it into his own and holds it in his lap.

“Ludendorff wasn’t Ares,” she says.

“But he killed those people,” Steve argues. “And there was an Ares.”

She doesn’t disagree. Steve looks down at her hand. He runs his fingertips across her skin, up over her wrist and her forearm and then back down. He thinks of that night in Veld, of tracing the curve of her spine to wake her up and love her again. He pushes the memory aside.

“You killed Ares,” he says.

“Yes.” He looks up in time to see her expression go thoughtful, her eyes glassy with memory. “He was my brother.”

Steve stares at her. “What?”

Her eyes refocus. “Only a god can kill another god. My sword was never the god-killer. I was.” She smiles. “Still am, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Zeus was my father.”

He blinks. “He brought you to life,” he says, echoing what she told him on the boat.

“Yes,” she confirms. “But it was the same way your father brought you to life.”

_Reproductive biology_ , he thinks. “Oh.” He frowns. “Wait.” She watches him, patiently waiting as he tries to work out what she’s saying. His eyes widen. “You’re a _god_?” He shakes his head. “Goddess,” he corrects. “You’re a _goddess_?”

“My mother isn’t a goddess,” she answers. “But she’s not human, either. So my exact nature is…” She smiles. “Complicated.”

“That’s why you haven’t aged. You’re immortal.”

“Yes.”

A shadow passes over her expression, and it hits him like the butt of a rifle to the back of his head. It’s 2018. She has lived for a hundred years. She will live for one hundred, two hundred, three hundred more. She will live until the world ends. He will not. They have more time, thanks to Barry, but only as much time as he has. And given that a few hours ago he’d very nearly died in that plane, he’s not feeling great about how much time that actually is.

“I want to know everything,” he tells her. He can hear the desperation in his voice, and he knows she can too.

“I’ll tell you everything—”

“Start now,” he pleads. He cradles her face in his hands and leans toward her. “I don’t want to waste another second.”

“You have to sleep,” she says. Her hand smoothes over his knee.

He shakes his head. “No, I—”

“Yes,” she interrupts. There’s authority in her voice, but it’s belied by the kindness in her eyes. “Even above average men sleep.”

He wants to smile but he can’t. He remembers feeling this way last night in Veld—his body exhausted and needing sleep, but every part of his heart and soul wanting to stay awake, to talk to her and listen to her and watch her and love her.

“We have time, Steve,” she whispers. “I promise.”

_A promise is unbreakable._

“Only if you sleep with me,” he says.

She arches an eyebrow at him.

“ _Sleep_ ,” he emphasizes.

She smiles. She stands and holds her hand out to him. He takes it, and rises from the couch. She leads him through the darkened house, her bare feet soundless on the floor. He doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going—he’s too busy looking at her hair, which is in a loose ponytail. He wants to touch it.

They stop in front of a door, and she swings it open. He follows her inside, and she closes the door behind him. He surveys the room. To his right there’s a desk with a chair and then a large bed. Another fireplace along the left wall, and a couch and an arm chair. Two doors beyond that on either side of the room, one that appears to lead to a bathroom and another that he’s guessing leads to a closet. The opposite wall is all glass, and it looks as though the room itself is jutting out onto the body of a lake.

Steve remembers asking Alfred if Bruce was rich, and watching Alfred smile and say _Master Wayne is quite wealthy, yes._

“Are you alright?” Diana murmurs, her hand still in his.

Steve turns his back to the room and faces her. She’s so beautiful he can barely stand it. He reaches out with his free hand, finds the band that’s holding her hair back, and gently pulls it free. Her hair cascades down onto her shoulders. He twines a strand of it around his finger, studying the smooth darkness of it against his calloused skin, and then brushes it away from her face.

Her dark eyes watch him, glimmering in the moonlight that’s coming through the windows. He told her that they would only sleep, and he meant it. But he’s afraid that he’s going to fall asleep in her arms and then wake up alone. He’s terrified that all of it—not just his trip to the future but her, and everything unspoken between them—is just the fevered dream of a soldier who wishes he knew what life was like without war.

He steps closer, crowding into her space, and she opens her arms to him. He rests his forehead against hers, closes his eyes, and wonders if he should tell her that he’s afraid she’s too good to be real. His throat tightens, so he communicates the only way he can—he brushes his mouth over hers. She kisses him back, one of her hands threading through his hair at the nape of his neck.

“Come to bed with me,” she whispers against his lips.

If he wasn’t feeling so frayed, he would tease her about the mixed message of her asking to be taken to bed just to sleep. Instead he finds her hand again, and leads her to the bed. He pulls the blankets back, climbs in, and she climbs in after him. She folds herself into his side, her head on his chest and one long leg slung over his, and he combs his fingers through her hair.

“We’ve got time,” he murmurs into the darkness, trying to reassure himself.

She tilts her head up and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “We have time.”


	7. Seven

Diana has spent the morning answering work emails.

She was meant to be in Madrid on Tuesday, but now that Steve is back she’ll have to postpone. He can’t travel without a passport, and it’s not even an option to leave him here with Bruce and Alfred. They’d be more than willing to help, she’s certain. But if someone is hunting for metahuman data, Bruce will likely have his hands full with the investigation. That, and she can’t bear the idea of telling him that whatever was happening between them has to end, only to turn around and ask him to keep an eye on the very same man who’s responsible for her ending it.   

She finishes the email to her friend at The Prado, asking to reschedule, and then starts another to her assistant. She pauses halfway through, reaching for her mug of tea, and that’s when she realizes that Steve is awake and watching her.

He’s propped up on one elbow, his temple resting on his palm. His blue eyes are nearly as bright as his smile. His hair is mussed, and she very badly wants to run her fingers through it.

“Good morning,” she says, setting her mug back down.

“Good morning,” he echoes. He nods at the laptop that’s sitting before her on the desk. “Are you on the internet?”

He says _internet_ so proudly that she barely stifles a laugh.

“What?” he asks, matching her smile.

“Nothing. Alfred told me that he taught you a little about modern technology. I hear you’re quite the expert on searching for certain YouTube videos.”

The tops of his cheeks flush. “Traitor,” he mutters about Alfred.

Diana laughs. “I am on the internet,” she says, answering his first question. “I’m sending a few work emails.”

He sits up in the bed, eyes alight with curiosity. “What’s an email?”

“Electronic mail. Instead of writing a letter and then having a person deliver it for you, you type whatever you want to say into your computer, and then the internet delivers it to whatever email address you want.”

“How long does it take to get there?”

She smiles. “It’s instantaneous.”

“Wait.” He scratches his jaw, and she notices that he’s got some stubble coming in. “So you type it out with the keyboard. Like if you were searching for something on YouTube.”

_Like Wonder Woman videos_ , she nearly teases. Instead, she simply says, “Yes.”

“And then you…”

“You click _send_ ,” she supplies.

“Right. You click and it just...gets delivered? Immediately?”

“Yes.”

“And you can send an email to anyone?”

“Anyone with an email address.”

He climbs out of bed and moves toward her purposefully. When he’s only a few feet away he stops abruptly, as though he’s realized that what she’s typing might be private.

“Can I…?” he asks, gesturing at the laptop.

“Of course,” she says, leaning back in her chair.

He closes the remaining distance and bends down to peer at her screen. She trails her eyes over his face, trying to memorize it. She likes him with stubble.

“That’s French,” he says about her email.

“Yes. I work at the Louvre.”

He gives her a startled look. “ _The_ Louvre?”

“Is there another?” she teases.

He smiles. “What do you do there?”

“I’m an antiquities curator.”

He squints at her screen again, and then turns back toward her. “ _Just_ a curator?”

“What do you mean?”

He points at the automatic signature at the end of her email. “My French is rusty, but I’m pretty sure that says director. Diana Prince, _Director._ ”

She smiles. “I am in charge of my department.”

“Of course you are,” he mutters, and she feels her smile deepen. “So you live in Paris?”

“Mhmm. In an apartment.”

He blinks at her. She can see that he’s trying to process it all, so she waits. He straightens and rakes a hand through his hair. She remembers him looking this way in the bathing cave on Themyscira, when she had tried to explain to him that the Amazons were a bridge to a greater understanding. Except then he’d been skeptical, and perhaps a little amused that she actually believed everything she was saying. Now, he just looks lost.

“Steve?” she asks.

He looks down at her. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just that four days ago I watched you try to figure out how to walk through a revolving door, and now you’re a director at the Louvre and you and your friends save the world from alien monsters on the weekend.”

For the first time since his return, she feels the years gaping between them like a chasm. There’s a surge of panic in her chest, but she forces it into calm.

“I must seem very different to you,” she says, trying to keep her tone neutral.

“No, you don’t,” he says immediately. He crouches before her, as though he’s uncomfortable with towering above her. “That’s the thing. You aren’t different at all.”

She lifts an eyebrow at him, and he tilts head. “Well, okay,” he adjusts. “You speak differently. And you used to wear everything you were feeling right on your face, but now it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking.” He glances down at her legs. “You also wear pants.”

She can’t help it—she laughs. He smiles at her crookedly, and then his expression grows serious. “Last night, when there were people in danger, you didn’t hesitate to go help them. And when Doomsday and then Steppenwolf showed up, you didn’t hesitate then either.”

She wonders about the videos he watched, but she doesn’t say anything. He trails his fingers over the fabric of her pants that’s stretched across her knee. “You left Paradise Island to save the world, Diana. And you did. And you’re still doing it. That’s who you are. That’s the woman I know.”

He is a spy, but Diana suspects that after one hundred years she is more adept at reading people than he is. She studies his face, and he lets her. She finds nothing but sincerity, and a familiar earnestness that warms the frozen edges of panic that are still coalescing in her chest.

In man’s world, she is an impossibility. All of the members of the League are, really, but she is especially unique—even amongst her brothers in arms she feels set apart and isolated. Part of it is because she is a woman, and part of it is because she is divine. The rest is because she has lived so long that there is very little, perhaps nothing, that she has not experienced before.

For decades she has coped with her isolation by living a life that belies her divine heritage. She can fly, but she rides public transit. While at her job, she joins her colleagues in speaking of her brothers and sisters as though they are only myths. She sheds her armor for expensive clothes and sky high heels that demand for her beauty, and not her raw, physical power, to be admired. She is not of this world, but she pretends to be. Nobody knows her well enough to contradict her.

But now here is Steve, knelt before her with admiration in his eyes, saying that _he_ knows her. She is stunned to find that he’s right. No one else has seen so much of her. Steve has walked the beaches of Themyscira and has met her mother, her aunt, her sisters. He has watched her demolish buildings and throw tanks. He has seen her heart break over the pain of men and the evil of men. He has made her come apart beneath his touch.

She has never felt as truly _known_ as she does with him.

Like all emotions, it is an absurd one. Despite the century that has passed, she has known Steve for less than a week. She knows nothing of his family, his childhood, his likes and dislikes. He knows just as little of her. Loving him is neither practical nor pragmatic. It is impossible.

But so is she, and she exists all the same.

Diana stops fighting against the impulse to touch him. She leans forward and holds his face in her hands. He leans forward too, his chest pressing against her crossed legs, his heart pounding against her knee.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

His eyes light up, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile that she could only describe as _wicked_ , but she’s stopped from hearing whatever he was about to say by the sound of the text message chime on her phone.

He groans and drops his forehead onto her knee. “There are so many technology interruptions in this world,” he complains.

She smiles and reaches for her phone. It’s a text message from Barry. _Alfred’s making breakfast. You guys got ten minutes or I’ll eat it all._

“Do you have to go save the world again?” Steve asks, resting his chin on her knee.

“No. Alfred is making breakfast. If you want some, we should go down or Barry will eat it all.” Steve grins, but Diana shakes her head. “No, I’m serious. He will eat all of it. He’s done it before.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He hops to his feet. “Well in that case, we should go. I’m starving.”

* * *

“Hey guys,” Barry says brightly, popping up from behind a gallon of milk and a box of cereal. “You just missed Bruce. Probably for the best, cause he was a little grumpy.”

“Perhaps because you told him he looked like a bat that needed to hibernate for a few years,” Alfred says dryly from his place at the stove.

Barry shrugs. “Well he did.”

Diana shakes her head at him. “You could have just told him good morning, Barry.”

“Yeah, right,” Barry snorts.

“What are those?” Steve asks, pointing at Barry’s bowl of Lucky Charms.

There’s a gust of wind and a brief blur, and then suddenly Barry is holding an extra bowl and spoon. “These are Lucky Charms,” Barry tells Steve. “And you’re going to _love_ them. Trust me. Sit down, man.”

Steve sits, and Diana wanders over to Alfred.

“The kettle is hot,” Alfred says, nodding at the back burner of the stove. The front two burners are covered with two large skillets, one filled with eggs and the other with bacon.

“You didn’t need to make breakfast,” Diana tells him.

“I rather enjoy it,” Alfred admits. “Reminds me of when the house was full.”

Diana isn’t sure if he’s talking about when the house was full of League members or when it was full of Waynes. She squeezes his shoulder affectionately and doesn’t ask. She refills her mug with more hot water, and then drops in a new tea bag.

“Did Bruce say anything about the LexCorp break-in?” she asks Alfred over the rim of her mug.

“No,” Alfred answers. He turns over a few slices of bacon and the pan sizzles loudly. “He did attempt to ask Mr. Allen about the details surrounding Captain Trevor’s return, but Mr. Allen was quite insistent that he refused to have that conversation without you present.”

“More for his sake than for mine, I’m sure,” Diana says with a laugh.

Alfred smiles. “Master Wayne said something along the same lines.”

Diana casts a look in Barry’s direction and sees that the speedster is now showing Steve his smartwatch. Steve’s eyes are the size of dinner plates, and Diana suddenly remembers that in the rush of yesterday, she never even told him that she still has his father’s watch.

“I can rouse him, if you like,” Alfred offers, breaking into her thoughts.

“No, don’t. He needs to sleep. I’ll ask him later.”

Alfred nods and then flips both the burners off. Diana reaches for the stack of plates nearby, and holds them one by one as Alfred piles eggs and bacon on each. One of the plates is fuller than the others, and she doesn’t even have to ask who its for.

Barry grins up at her when she sets it in front of him. “Thanks. I’m starved.”

Diana picks up the box of cereal and shakes it. It’s empty. “Obviously,” she says.

She sets a second plate in front of Steve, who smiles up at her with such affection that her heart twists. She sits next to him, and their shoulders brush as they settle in to eat.

“So uh…” Barry starts once Alfred is seated at the table with them.

Both Diana and Steve look up at him.

Barry smiles sheepishly. “Did you really cross No Man’s Land in the middle of World War I?” he asks.

“Yes,” Steve answers immediately.

Barry leans forward. “Please tell me that story.”

Steve glances at Diana. She smiles. “You probably remember it better than I do.”

He does. There are details that she’s forgotten over the years, like the moments when she tried to stop before they even got to the trenches, whether for some stuck horses or an injured soldier. The way they’d fought, too. She remembers him trying to explain to her why they couldn’t cross, but she’s startled to find that because it was only two days ago for him, he’s able to recite their argument verbatim.

He tells the story in its entirety, right up until the moment when he’d hollered _Shield!_ and helped to catapult her into the sniper’s nest. There are moments he wasn’t present for—like her fight inside the building, or when she’d gotten to the town square before him—but she doesn’t chime in. Her breakfast goes cold, but she doesn’t care. She’s too enthralled by the way he’s telling the story, and the unexpected peek into how he saw her that day.

“That’s incredible,” Barry breathes when Steve is finished.

“ _She_ was incredible,” Steve says. He looks at Diana. “Certainly proved me wrong.”

There isn’t a trace of resentment in his voice, and there’s pride in his eyes. Diana reaches out and covers his hand with her own. Her heart feels full.  

“Man I ship you guys so hard,” Barry sighs from across the table.

Diana rolls her eyes and removes her hand. Steve looks confused. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Diana says, standing to her feet. “Come on, Steve. We need to buy you some clothes.” She glances at Alfred. “Text me when Bruce is awake?” Alfred nods. She turns her attention to Barry and gestures at the table. “You’re on dish duty, Flash.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” he groans.

“I can—” Steve starts, reaching for his plate.

“No,” Diana cuts him off. She gives Barry a look. There’s a strong gust of wind, a second or two where the kitchen is filled with a haze of red, and then the table is clear of dishes and Barry is back in his seat with his hands folded behind his head.

“Show off,” Diana says.

* * *

“Is this what you felt like with Etta that day in Selfridge’s?” Steve asks sullenly.

Diana is standing behind him, brushing her hand across the shoulder of the jacket he’s wearing. She looks up, and their eyes meet in the mirror. “Yes,” she says.

He turns to face her. “I’ve tried on a hundred outfits.”

“You have not,” she says. She tugs at the collar of his coat. “I like this. It suits you.”

He looks down at it. “It’s shiny.”

“It’s leather.” She frowns at him. “You wore leather in Veld.”

“Not like this. What are these pockets for?” he asks, tugging at the large pocket over his chest.

She bats his hand away. “They’re decoration.”

He crinkles his nose. “Since when do men’s clothes have _decorations_?”

“Since you started living in the twenty-first century,” she tells him. She ushers him back toward the changing room, but he puts his hands out against the frame of the door and plants his feet.

“No,” he says resolutely.

She lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Do you future people wash your clothes, or do you just wear new ones every day?”

She smiles. “We have washing machines.”

“Great. Then the ones we’ve already picked out are enough,” he says, gesturing at the pile of clothes sitting on a nearby bench. “Wash then re-wear.”

“Fine,” she agrees. “But we’re getting the jacket.”

“It’s shiny,” he says again.

“It’s leather,” she repeats. “It suits you.” And then she pushes him into the changing room and closes the door.

When he re-emerges, she’s got the pile of clothes folded neatly over one arm, and is tapping her thumbs against what he recently learned is a modern day version of a telephone. “What’re you doing?”

“Texting Lois,” she says. She taps a few more times, then slides the telephone into the pocket of her long coat. He’s distracted momentarily by the realization that her pants are made of the same shiny leather as the jacket she’s forcing him to buy. He likes leather on her. It’s...tight.  

“I don’t know what either of those words mean,” he says, forcing himself to look back up into her eyes.

“Lois is Clark’s fiancee.”

“The guy that shoots lasers out of his eyes,” Steve says, and somehow finds himself mimicking Barry by pretending to shoot things out of his eyes with his fingers.

“Yes,” Diana laughs, catching his hands. She glances around. “But you can’t tell people that.”

“Why not?”

“Because nobody knows that Clark is Superman,” she whispers. She plucks the jacket out of his hands and turns away from him. Steve traipses after her.

“So being a hero is like being a spy,” he says. “You pretend to be someone else.”

“Not quite. Clark _is_ Clark. But he is also...the other guy.”

“Why can’t he be both?”

“Because people are nosy,” she says. “And if they knew who he was, he would never get any privacy.”

They finally stop in front of a long, marble counter. Diana slides the pile of clothes across the counter to the cashier, and Steve hovers behind her. He watches as the cashier points a black gun-like device at the tags hanging off his new clothes, and wonders if the gun is linked to the internet.

Diana pulls out her telephone again, and Steve is startled when he notices that her fingernails are painted. Were they painted earlier this morning? He can’t remember. It’s a very pretty shade of pink. He considers telling her that he likes it, but the cashier is giving him an odd look from the other side of the counter, maybe wondering how in the world he ended up standing next to someone who looks like Diana (he’s been wondering the same thing), so he keeps his mouth shut.

Diana puts her phone away. He watches as she pulls out her wallet, and then a small, colorful rectangle. He leans into her, his chest against her shoulder blades.

“What’s that?” he says in her ear.

She tilts her head toward him. “What’s what?”

“That,” he says, pointing at the colored rectangle.

“That’s my bank card. It’s how I pay for things.” She glances at him over her shoulder, and his face must look as confused as he feels because she explains. “When I get my paycheck, it goes directly into my bank account. Then, when I want to buy something, I use this card and the store takes the money straight out of my account.”

“And that’s how everyone pays for everything now?”

“Well, you can still use cash. Or write a check. Some people use a credit card.”

The cashier is now openly staring at them while she puts the clothes into bags, but if Diana is embarrassed she doesn’t show it. She smiles at the woman, and then slides her colored rectangle into a small black box on the counter. “See?” she says to Steve. “Like that.”

He nods. “What’s a credit card?”

“It’s just like a bank card, except instead of spending your own money you spend a company’s money. Then, you pay them back for whatever you spent plus interest.”

Steve frowns. “Aren’t there people who just never pay it back?”

Diana laughs. “Yes. Plenty.”

“What happens to them?”

She shrugs. “They end up in debt. Sometimes they file for bankruptcy. It just depends.”

She bends over the small black box and, using a pen attached to a black cord, seems to write on it. The cashier holds the two bags filled with clothes out to Steve, and he takes them. A strip of paper flutters out of the top of one, and Steve grabs it and looks it over. It’s the receipt. He scans to the bottom, and that’s when he notices how much money Diana has just spent.

“Is this in American dollars?!” he demands, looking up at the cashier. Diana straightens and looks at him. “Diana,” he says in alarm, “you can’t spend this much money on me for _clothes_.”

“Steve—”

“No, no, nope,” he says, shoving the bags back at the cashier. “Take them back, we don’t need them. Put her money back on her credit...rectangle...thing.”

The cashier gapes at him, clearly appalled.  

“Steve,” Diana says patiently, a hand on her hip. “It’s not that much money.”

He brandishes the receipt in her face, but all he can manage to say is something along the lines of “Ungh!”

She takes the receipt from him calmly and then turns to the cashier and lifts the bags from her hands. “So sorry,” Diana says, smiling kindly. “He’s not from around here.”

She turns to Steve, grasps his arm above his elbow, and leads him in the opposite direction of the counter.

“No, we should—” Steve says, trying to turn around, but her grip is like iron and he has no choice but to continue walking. Once they’re out of earshot of the cashier, she stops and turns to face him.

“It’s been a hundred years, Steve,” she says quietly. “Things cost a little more now.”

“A _little more_?” he chokes. He looks wildly around the store, and his eyes fall on a nearby display of hats. He picks one up, looks for the tag, and finds it. “Forty dollars?!” he squawks. He waves the hat at her. “Forty dollars for this hat!”

“That is a little overpriced,” she admits dryly.

“I could _make_ this hat for _half_ that!”

She smirks at him. “I didn’t realize sewing was a talent of yours.”

“It’s not,” he admits, staring down at the hat. “But for forty dollars, I could learn!” He tosses the hat back on the display table. “Forty dollars,” he scoffs. “That’s highway robbery.”

“No, sweetheart, that’s inflation.”

He blinks at her, feeling dazed. He thinks it's the pet name. She’s never called him anything but Steve. He wracks his brain, but he doesn’t think he’s ever called her anything other than Diana.

Nope, that’s not true. He’s fairly certain he might have called her _angel_ in the middle of…

He swallows. Now is really not the time to be thinking about that.

“Steve,” Diana calls. He focuses back on her face and hopes that she can’t read minds. “One hundred years is a long time. Technology isn’t the only thing that’s changed.”

He glances around the store suspiciously. “Does everything cost more?”

“Yes.”

“How much more?”

She looks thoughtful. “Well. In 1918, how much did it cost to go see a silent film?”

“Sixteen cents,” he says immediately.

“Movies have sound now,” she says, smiling. “And a ticket costs about nine dollars.”

“ _Nine_ dollars?!” he repeats, aghast.  

She lifts her eyebrows at him, and he glances around and realizes people are staring. He lowers his voice. “That’s almost a month’s rent, Diana.”

“Rent’s a little more expensive nowadays too,” she says with a smirk.

He narrows his eyes at her. “Do you rent your apartment?”

“No, I own it.”

“How much did it cost you?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to yell whatever I say, and the entire store doesn’t need to know how much my apartment is worth.”

He huffs at her. She smiles at him. “Are you rich like Bruce?” he asks.

She laughs. “Nobody’s rich like Bruce.”

“But you have money.”

“Yes.”

He studies her with suspicion. She sighs quietly, sets the bags down on the floor, and then steps toward him and puts her hands on his chest.

“I’ve had a century to accumulate wealth,” she tells him softly. “And the Louvre pays me very well. I can afford to buy you some clothes.”

She plays with the top button of his shirt (Bruce’s shirt, actually), and the backs of her pretty pink nails press against the skin of his chest. She glances up at him from underneath long, dark eyelashes, smiles, and his heart skips a beat. “And maybe some lunch if you stop shouting,” she adds. “You’re scaring the children.”

Steve glances around and notices a small boy staring at him, his little mouth hanging open.

“Hello,” Steve says, waving. The little boy’s eyes go wide and he turns and buries himself in his mother’s side.

“See?” Diana teases.

She moves her hands across his shoulders, back and forth as though he’s a child that needs to be soothed. He realizes with a flush that that’s exactly what he’s acting like. He takes a deep breath and wills his muscles to relax beneath her touch.

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to her. “Okay.” He points a finger at her. “But I’m going to need to start looking for a job.”

“What on earth for?” she asks with a surprised laugh.

“Well I can’t just live off of you like some sort of _kept woman_ ,” he says.

She grins at him, a wide and dazzling thing that makes him realize he’s just said something that’s terribly out of fashion. He doesn’t care. He’ll say all kinds of out-of-date things if it means she’ll keep smiling like that.

“How about we get you adjusted to the twenty-first century first?” she says. Her voice is low and persuasive, and he can smell her perfume when he stands this close.

He swallows and then nods. “Deal.”

She smiles. “Come on. I know exactly where to take you for lunch.”


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, your comments are SO NICE. What a lovely group of humans you are. Thank you :)
> 
> Two things to remember for this chapter: 1) The only person who knows (so far) that Diana and Bruce have a thing going is Alfred. Barry does NOT know—he only knows that they're very close friends. 2) Not everything is going to be perfectly aligned with DC canon. I'm going to be using some artistic license here and there—so don't get too angsty if you read something that's not perfectly accurate.

By the time Diana and Steve get back to Bruce’s, Steve is still raving about the sushi they had for lunch. Diana is listening to him with a smile, reaching out her foot to kick the front door closed, when she hears it.

“You had _no right_!”

It’s Bruce. Steve goes still next to Diana but she surges forward, following Bruce’s voice in the direction of the living room.

“You put all of us in jeopardy,” Bruce continues. “Do you have any idea how dangerous Amanda Waller is?”

“I’m not a kid, Bruce!” Barry shouts. “I fought Steppenwolf just like you did. I don’t need to be lectured about danger. I can take care of myself. And so can the rest of them.”

Diana enters the room. Bruce and Barry are standing opposite each other, glaring. Alfred is standing in the corner of the room quietly. All three men turn her way when she enters.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Did you know he worked with A.R.G.U.S.?” Bruce demands.

Diana glances at Barry. “He mentioned it.”

“Did you tell him how _stupid_ that was?”

“Bruce,” Diana warns, but Barry explodes before she can say anything else.

“You are such a hypocrite! We all know where you got the files on us, Bruce. They came from Waller. When you needed her it was okay, but when I did suddenly it’s stupid.”

“You didn’t _need_ her, Barry,” Bruce argues. “You didn’t _need_ to do this.”

“Look at her!” Barry shouts, throwing his hand out in Diana’s direction. “Can’t you see how happy she is? Don’t you think she deserves this?”

“It’s not about what she deserves—”

“So you wouldn’t have done it?” Barry interrupts. “Everything she’s done for this world, for _us_ , and you get the chance to give something back to her and you’d just ignore it?”

Bruce opens his mouth, but Barry doesn’t let him answer.

“Don’t bother lying. We all know you would. Not for any of the rest of us, but you’d do it for her.”

Bruce clenches his jaw but says nothing. Diana watches him. He glances at her and then quickly looks away, and her heart twists in surprise. Would he?

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “We’re not gods, Barry,” he says, his voice quieter. Barry opens his mouth, his eyes darting toward Diana who is, in fact, a god, but Bruce cuts him off. “You know what I mean. This is bigger than Diana. What you did could have profoundly altered the lives of millions of people. That is _not okay_. You don’t get to mess with people’s lives just because you have superpowers.”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Barry shoots back, his voice hard. “Powers. It’s _always_ about powers with you. You couldn’t stand that Clark had them, and now you can’t stand that I do. You gonna kill me too, Bruce?”

Bruce lunges toward Barry. Diana leaps across the room and lands between them, facing Bruce with her hands on his chest. “Stop,” she commands. Bruce pushes against her hands and she bends her elbows, ready to shove him if she needs to. “Bruce, _stop_.”

He stops. She waits, just to make sure he won’t lunge again, and then she turns to Barry. “That was uncalled for.”

Barry hangs his head. She turns back to Bruce.

“You’re being self-righteous.” He lifts his eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t argue. “Did you even ask him to explain what happened?”

“He wouldn’t talk about it because you weren’t here,” Bruce growls.

Diana gestures at herself standing between them. “Well I guess he had good reason, didn’t he?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. Diana turns back to Barry. “Tell me what happened with Waller. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

Barry collapses into a nearby chair and glares irritably at Bruce. “He was with me when she sent her guys to pick me up. He let me go.”

“I didn’t think you’d be an idiot,” Bruce mutters.

“ _Enough_ ,” Diana says to him.

Bruce turns away from her and stalks toward the fireplace. Diana turns back to Barry. “Explain.”

He sighs. “She wanted to know about you.”

“Me?” Diana says, surprised.

“Yeah. When Bruce recruited you, and how much I knew about you. She told me about some historian in Belgium who told her what you did in Veld, and then she showed me that picture of you and Steve.”

There’s a rustling on the other side of the room, and Diana glances over to see Steve framed in the archway leading to the kitchen, shopping bags at his feet. His blue eyes are wide with interest, and when their gazes collide she knows instantly what he’s thinking. _The picture from Veld?_

She nods, just once, and turns back to Barry.

“She knew I was fast enough to run back.”

“How?” Bruce demands.

“I don’t know,” Barry says. “ _You’re_ the only person I told. Did _you_ tell her?”

Bruce pushes away from the mantle of the fireplace, ready to argue, and Diana steps between them again. “I will throw both of you through that window and into the lake if you don’t stop it,” she warns.

Both of their faces go white.

“Sorry,” Barry mutters. Bruce says nothing.

“Did she ask you to run back and get Steve?” Diana asks Barry.

Barry shakes his head. “No. She never _asked_ me to do anything. Not really. She just said that being able to do what I could do was a gift, and that being a hero was about using my gifts to help other people. She showed me this video of you saving my ass, and read me all these stories of you saving other people, and she said that if I really cared about you like I said I did, then there’s no way I could just sit back and do nothing.”

There’s a blush creeping along the back of his neck and the tops of his cheeks. Diana isn’t surprised that Waller was able to manipulate Barry’s affection for her. She isn’t surprised by the depth of Barry’s regard for her either—not after last night, when she hugged him in the Batcave and felt his shoulders shaking beneath her arms. Barry’s an orphan, more or less, and though he’s not the only member of the League who is, he is the only one who is still desperately trying to find surrogates to fill the void.

“You agreed,” Diana says.

Barry shakes his head. “I didn’t think I could really do it, you know? The most I’d ever run back was a few weeks. That was hard enough. But a hundred _years_? I thought it was impossible. But she had these scientists who had worked out variables and algorithms, and they had all this equipment, and the more I practiced the farther back I could go.”

He’s fidgeting. Diana looks down at his hands and realizes that he’s vibrating them so fast that he’s phasing them absently in and out of the arms of the chair.

“I kept telling myself that I was just gonna see if I could get there, but I wouldn’t _actually_ do it. I wouldn’t risk messing with the timeline by pulling him out. And then one day—early January, I think—I did it.”

He looks up at her, eyes wide, and Diana is struck by how young he looks. Everyone seems young to her, but Barry—he’s just a _child_.

“I saw you,” he tells her. “And Steve. You were talking. And then he ran and jumped on the plane, and you stayed behind to fight that guy. He trapped you. Wrapped you in treads from a tank, and I wanted to help you so bad but I knew I couldn’t.”

The room is deathly quiet, and Diana is certain that everyone can hear the pounding of her heart. She wants desperately to look at Steve, to cross the room and bury her face in his neck and hold onto him so that she knows he’s real, but she keeps her eyes fixed on Barry.

“The plane exploded,” Barry whispers. “And you screamed.”

His hands have finally gone still.

“The sound of it, Di. I’ve never heard anything like it. Like someone cracked your chest open and ripped your heart out.”

Diana closes her eyes but the sight of the plane bursting into a ball of flames is engraved on the inside of her eyelids, replaying over and over the way it has for a century. She opens her eyes again. Barry is watching her.

“I had to do it after that,” he says. “I had to give him back to you.”

His hands start to vibrate again, and he looks at the floor. “They had this technology on my suit that mapped the terrain while I was there, and they put it into a simulator so I could practice without actually being in the past. When I mastered it, I called you and asked you to meet me in the Batcave.” He shrugs. “You know the rest.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks him.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me do it.”

Diana nods. She can feel the eyes of each of the men in the room on her, waiting for her to say something. She moves silently toward the window, crosses her arms over her chest, and looks out over the lake. She half expects Bruce to start in on Barry again, but nobody says a word as she gathers her thoughts. Finally, she turns around. They’re all watching her, but she fixes her eyes on Bruce.

“Why would Amanda Waller want to give me Steve back?”

Bruce slides his hands into his pockets. “Maybe it wasn’t about that. Maybe it was about seeing if Barry could go back that far.”

“But what for?” Diana presses. “What does she need from the past?”

“She could want to change something,” Barry offers. His eyes get a faraway look in them, and he says quietly, “We all have things in our past we wish we could change.”

“The event in Midway City,” Bruce says. “She’s responsible for it, and it’s been giving her a lot of grief. Maybe she wants to change her role in it.”

“Then why send me back a hundred years?” Barry says. “Midway City wasn’t a hundred years ago.”

“What about the future?” Alfred says from the corner. “If Mr. Allen can run one hundred years into the past, surely he can run the other way.”

“You think she wanted to get a glimpse of the future?” Bruce asks.

Alfred shrugs. “Why not? After the uncertainty of the past year, I’m sure plenty of people would be eager to know what the future holds.”

“I’ve never run into the future,” Barry says.

“It’s not about Barry,” Steve pipes up. Everyone in the room turns their attention to the spy.

“What makes you say that?” Diana asks.

Steve straightens. “You remember the gala?”

“Yes.”

“I was talking to Maru before you came in. I thought if I could…” he trails off and suddenly looks a bit uncomfortable. Diana raises her eyebrows.

“If you could…?” she prompts.

“Flatter her,” Steve says.

Diana smirks. “You mean seduce her.”

“Well,” Steve says, drawing out the word.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Bruce interrupts irritably. Diana gives him a look, but Steve rushes to explain.

“Waller acts like a spy. She knows how to manipulate people. If she wanted something from Barry, she would have made the meeting _about_ Barry. She would have flattered him, or challenged him. She would have made him seem like he was the most important person in the world. But she didn’t. Barry said it himself, all she wanted to talk about was Diana.”

“And you,” Barry chimes in. “She even called you guys _lovers_.”

Barry says the last word with his nose crinkled as though he’s been asked to eat a plate full of vegetables. Steve appears as though he’s trying very hard not to grin. Bruce looks like he swallowed a lemon, and Diana is suddenly very aware of the fact that she’s standing between Bruce and Steve and that Alfred is watching her discomfort with barely disguised interest.

“So what?” Bruce says gruffly.

“So Barry was just a means to an end,” Steve answers. “Diana’s the one she wants something from.”

“You were a gift,” Diana says, realizing where he’s going.

Steve smiles at her. “Something like that.”

Barry raises his hand. “I’m confused.”

“She let you bring me here, right?” Steve says to the speedster. “Straight to Diana instead of to her?”

“Yeah.”

“And has she gotten in contact with you at all? Asked you for anything?”

Barry shakes his head. “No.”

“Because she doesn’t want anything from you.” He looks back at Diana. “She wants something from _you_.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as Steve’s words sink in, and then Bruce turns abruptly on his heel and disappears from the room.

“Rude,” Barry mutters.

Diana frowns and follows Bruce. Barry, Steve, and Alfred fall in line behind her. By the time they all file into the Batcave, Bruce is punching his fingers against one of the keyboards by the wall of monitors.

“What are you doing?” Diana asks, stopping behind him.

“Scanning for bugs,” he says.

Barry’s eyes go wide. “You think that’s how Wall—”

“Quiet,” Bruce growls over his shoulder.

There’s a sudden _pop_ , a shower of sparks, and then a _hiss_ on the other side of the room. It happens three more times, and then the Batcave is silent.

“Four,” Bruce mutters under his breath. “How were there four bugs in here that got past the system?”

Barry speeds in the direction of one of the sets of sparks. He holds up something between his thumb and forefinger. “Guys, they’re bugs.”

“I believe that’s already been established, Mr. Allen,” Alfred says.

“No, they’re _bugs_ ,” Barry repeats. He speeds forward and holds the bug out to Diana. “They’re designed to look like an actual bug. A fly.”

Diana takes it from him and holds it up to the light. Sure enough, it looks exactly like a fly.

“Cheeky bastards,” Barry murmurs under his breath.

Diana turns to Bruce. “I think I’d like to pay a visit to Amanda Waller.”

Bruce nods. “Me too.”

* * *

Amanda Waller is nursing a whisky behind her desk in A.R.G.U.S.’s underground bunker on the outskirts of Gotham when she gets a call from The Batman.  
  
“Look who remembered how to return a phone call,” she says when she answers.

“Are you in town?” he growls.

“Yes, thanks to you. Nice work with The Joker and Harley.”

“We need to talk.”

Amanda straightens in her chair. Last night, she’d watched The Flash zoom out of her lab and back to the 20th century to pull Captain Steve Trevor out of a plane just before it exploded. She’d expected that if The Flash failed, he would immediately return to the bunker. If he succeeded, he’d be running straight to Wonder Woman. When an hour passed by and he still hadn’t returned, Amanda left the lab, came back to her office, and pulled out some headphones.

It had been a risk to get audio devices into the Batcave. She knew that Batman’s security measures were likely intense, and that if he found them he would eventually figure out that they were from A.R.G.U.S. But in the end, she didn’t have much of a choice—how else would she know whether her plan was moving forward? Still, she expected to hear nothing but white noise when she put the headphones in her ears.

Instead, she heard voices.

It was the best damn thing she’d ever heard. She listened to the entire reunion three times. She felt vindicated to know that, judging by Trevor’s _last night in Veld was the best night of my life_ admission, she was right to trust the ancient historian who had assured her that Wonder Woman and her captain were lovers. She was thrilled when she heard the voices of The Joker and Harley and realized that they had no idea that half the Justice League was currently in Gotham. She was downright giddy when she got the call that Wonder Woman had apprehended Harley, Batman had captured The Joker, and both criminals were enroute to the bunker. She couldn’t have planned it better herself.

“Talk?” Amanda says to Batman, trying to keep the glee from her voice. “About what?”

“In person.”

Amanda sips her whisky. “You know where the bunker is.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

He hangs up without another word. Amanda drains the rest of her whisky and then slips the glass into a drawer of her desk. She calls up to the main entrance and tells them to expect Batman and maybe a few more guests. Then she sits back in her chair and smiles.

Time to make the pitch.

* * *

Meeting Amanda Waller for the first time reminds Diana of one hundred years ago in London, when she’d shouted down a general who had no qualms about sending his soldiers to their deaths.

Bruce told her about the Suicide Squad on their way to the bunker. Diana had known bits and pieces about the event in Midway City, but not about the implanted nano bombs. It was enough to send the rage that had been simmering in her blood into a boil. She’s met Harley Quinn. The woman is dangerous and clearly insane. But nobody deserves to have a bomb implanted in their skull. Not even Harley.

Now, standing in Waller’s office, Diana realizes that she hasn’t been this angry in a very long time. She thinks of Barry, sweet and desperate to give her what he can’t give himself. She thinks of Steve, brave and honorable and always ready to throw himself into danger. They’re good men, and Waller is using them as her pawns.

Diana won’t stand for that.

“Wonder Woman,” Waller says in surprise. She stands and makes her way around her wide wooden desk. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us.” She gives Bruce a pointed look, but Bruce says nothing. Waller sticks out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Amanda Waller, Director of A.R.G.U.S.”

Diana glances at her hand, but makes no attempt to shake it. “I know who you are.”

Waller’s smile fades a bit. She pulls her hand back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Steve Trevor.” Waller seems a little taken aback that Diana has cut right to the chase. Diana doesn’t care. “I understand you’re the one responsible for bringing him back.”

“Your friend The Flash did all the hard work,” Waller says. Her voice is dripping in false humility. “I just provided the tech.”

“Why?”

Waller blinks. “Pardon?”

“I asked why,” Diana repeats.

“Well you saved the world. Multiple times. As the Director of A.R.G.U.S., I’m in a position to make sure that you’re rewarded for your efforts.”

Diana’s stomach turns. “I don’t do what I do for a reward.”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve one.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

Waller smiles again, the same kind of smile Ares gave Diana just before he told her that they could destroy mankind together.

“The President is very grateful to you and the rest of the League for everything you’ve done the past few months. But the fact remains that the six of you are beings with extraordinary amounts of power. And you answer to no one.”

“Haven’t we proven ourselves worthy of trust?” Bruce asks.

“To the American people, certainly. To the media as well. But for those of us in the government…” She shrugs. “You’ll have to forgive us, but the memory of the Capitol building blowing up around Superman is still a bit fresh.”

Diana can feel Bruce tense beside her, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Clark has been back for a while now, but Bruce still carries around the guilt of what happened before and during the battle with Doomsday. She still remembers that day in the graveyard, the way Bruce had said so matter-of-factly _I failed him_.

“What are you proposing?” she asks Waller.

“I can smooth things out for you with the bureaucrats. I can offer you unlimited resources. And I can shield you from accusations of unchecked power without micromanaging what you do.”

Bruce steps forward and pours the four bugs from the Batcave out of his gloved hand and onto the rug beneath their feet. “I’d hate to experience micromanagement if this is your idea of hands-off.”

Waller looks down at the bugs on the floor, but her face remains impassive. “I have no idea what those are.”

“They’re yours.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to,” Bruce growls. “We won’t answer to you.”

Waller turns her gaze to Diana. “You let him speak for you?”

Diana doesn’t take the bait. “We’re a team. And we support him as our leader.”

Waller laughs. “The other members of the League only follow Batman because you do. _You’re_ their leader. You have the power to sway their opinions.”

“Why would I want to?”

“You’ve seen what I can do for you.”

“I’ve seen what The Flash can do for me.”

Waller’s eyes blaze in anger. “That mission was a sanctioned government operation. Whatever came out of it is the property of the United States government, which means we’re free to take it back anytime we please.”

Diana’s body seems to move of its own accord. It’s so easy to wrap her fingers around Waller’s throat and squeeze, so easy to lift her up and slam her back against the nearest wall and hold her there, her feet dangling above the floor, her hands scrambling for something to clutch.

“You have no claim on Steve Trevor,” Diana says calmly, quietly. “He is mine. If you pursue him, I will come for you. And there is not a bunker on this planet that can keep you from me.”

Waller’s fingers claw at Diana’s hand.

“Are we clear?”

Waller nods frantically. Diana loosens her grip and Waller drops to the floor, her hands at her neck.

Diana stares down at her indifferently. “It would be wise not to mistake my distaste for violence as an unwillingness to use it, Director.”

Diana turns away from Waller. Bruce is watching her, clearly surprised, but she doesn’t care. “We are done here,” she says.

She’s halfway to the door when Waller rasps out behind her, “I can make him immortal.”

Diana goes still. She turns slowly, heart pounding, to see Waller bent over with a hand still grasping her neck. Diana reaches for her side, flicks her wrist, and the lasso soars through the air and wraps itself around Waller’s wrist.

“What did you say?” Diana asks.

“I can—ah!”

Waller looks down at her wrist and then up at Diana, her eyes wide with fear.

“The lasso compels you to tell the truth,” Bruce explains. “If you don’t like the pain, then don’t lie.”

Waller stares down at the golden cord around her wrist in fascinated horror. Diana tugs on it lightly, and Waller looks up.

“What did you say?” Diana repeats.

“I can…” She struggles, groans in pain, and then takes a deep breath. “I know how to stop him from aging.”

“How?”

“A.R.G.U.S monitors and manages a wide array of powerful beings. One of those beings is an occult specialist with considerable power.”

“Constantine,” Bruce says.

Diana looks at him over her shoulder. “Who is Constantine?”

“He’s a con man.”

“He’s a genius,” Waller corrects. She winces. “And a con man. He’s a sorcerer.”

Diana lifts her eyebrows. “So he’s going to wave his magic wand and make Steve immortal.”

“He doesn’t have a wand. And it’s not his magic that will do it. It’s his blood.”

If Diana found Waller despicable before, she finds her downright repulsive now. “How do you know this?” she asks, not even trying to mask the disdain in her voice.

“He told me.”

“Why would he tell you that?”

“Because he owes me.”

“Explain.”

“It’s classifi—”  

The director screams in pain and falls to her knees. Diana stares at her disgust.

“Come on, Waller,” Bruce says from next to Diana. “Just tell her the truth.”

Waller sucks in a deep breath. “I’ve gotten him out of a few nasty situations in the past. He owes me. So he does what I need him to do with no questions asked.”

“And as long as the paycheck is big enough,” Bruce mutters.

Waller glowers at Bruce. “Whatever gets the job done, right Batman?”

Diana senses that there’s a subtext in Waller’s comments, but she doesn’t care enough to ask about it. “You would drain a man of his blood just for the chance to oversee the League?” she asks instead.

Waller shakes her head. “You don’t need to drain him. You just need a transfusion.”

“How many?” Bruce demands.

“One. According to him, his blood is dominant and regenerative. It would reproduce itself once enough of it is in Trevor’s system. And then it would stop the aging process completely.”

Diana doesn’t trust Waller, lasso or no. And if Constantine is a con man, she doesn’t trust him either. There are far too many unanswered questions—like what exactly is in Constantine's blood that stops aging, and whether it’s even compatible with Steve’s blood.

But Hera help her, all Diana can think about is what it would be like to be with Steve forever.

“I can see that you’re tempted,” Waller says with a sneer.

Diana glares at her. The urge to wrap her fingers around the woman’s throat again is overpowering.

“He owes me,” Waller says. “I can make him do it.”

Her body trembles in pain, but she manages to hold eye contact.

“Is she lying?” Bruce asks Diana.

“No. But she’s trying to hold back some truth.”

Waller grits her teeth, her body nearly convulsing, and then she shouts, “He owes Batman too!”

“There it is,” Bruce says dryly.

Waller’s chest is heaving. “If you don’t want to go through me, he would do it for Batman.”

Diana casts a glance at Bruce. “I’d have to check,” he tells her. “But it’s possible.”

Diana turns back to Waller. “Anything else I need to know?”

Waller’s face is dripping with sweat. She says nothing. Diana flicks her wrist, and the lasso coils back at her side. “Now we are done,” she says to Bruce.

She turns to go, and Bruce follows her. She pauses in the doorway and turns around. Waller is still on her knees. The director looks at her with more than a hint of fear, but Diana feels no more remorse.

“Stay away from The Flash,” she says. “He’s mine too.”


	9. Nine

Steve is starting to feel a bit like a housewife.

For the second time in as many days, Diana has disappeared with Bruce to take care of a problem. This time it’s Amanda Waller instead of The Joker and Harley (Barry had explained who everyone was using some questionable artwork on what he called a _whiteboard_ ), but Steve doesn’t much care. All he knows is that whatever she’s planning to do called for putting her armor on. She could be out there fighting right now, and he’s stuck in Bruce’s house watching Barry shout at the TV while he plays something called _Call of Duty_.

Steve wanders into the kitchen and finds Alfred pouring some hot water into a mug.

“Captain Trevor,” he greets. “Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”

“No thanks,” Steve says. “I’m not much of a tea drinker. And please, can you call me Steve?”

Alfred smiles. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tolerate being called by your title. I’m not one for first names.”

Steve rests his forearms on the counter. “Do you call Diana by her title?”

“Of course.”

“Her  _full_ title?”

Alfred frowns. “Is Miss Prince not accurate?”

“Depends on who you ask, I guess. When I met her she was Diana, Princess of the Amazons.” He frowns. “I think that was it, anyway. Maybe it was Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons.” He smiles. “I guess the princess part is implied when you’re the daughter of the queen.”

Alfred stares at him. “I didn’t realize she was a princess. Only that she was a goddess.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No. But Miss Prince doesn’t often speak of her past. She’s quite private.”

Steve stares down at the counter. It doesn’t surprise him to hear that over the past century, Diana has become more reserved. He has been trained to observe people, and though he spent most of his day with her as the bewildered student to her patient teacher, he did manage to notice that she has changed.

When he met her, she was an open book—every feeling was written clearly across her face, and he never had to ask her what she was thinking because she always told him whether he wanted to know or not. Now, she is remarkably self-contained. He doesn’t doubt that she still feels and thinks just as deeply as she did. She just keeps those thoughts and feelings to herself. He recognizes it because it’s what _he_ does. He learned a long time ago that people can only use against you what you let them have, and Diana seems to be very careful with how much of herself she gives to the people around her.   

He wonders when she started to change, and why. He thinks he knows. He remembers watching her idealism shatter right before his eyes the night he (almost) died. First, on the outskirts of Veld. He had reached for her when she emerged from the clouds of gas, too grateful that she was alive to wonder why it hadn’t affected her, and she had pushed him away with fury in her eyes. _They’re all dead. You did this._ Then in the watchtower. The tears making her eyes glassy, the betrayal and pain in her voice. _My mother was right when she said the world of men do not deserve you._

Hippolyta was right. Humanity didn’t deserve Diana then, and they still don’t deserve her now. She’s too good for all of them—himself included.

That’s why he got on the plane. To save millions of lives, yes, but also because he knew that Diana’s crisis of faith would be unacceptable to her the moment she got through it. She would never forgive herself for not going with him when he asked. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t have been able to fight Ares _and_ stop the plane. She would have held herself responsible for both, and it would have destroyed her. He knew what it was like to drown in regret. He would not let her drown too.

Now, he wonders if his sacrifice had only pushed her further into detachment.

He meant what he told her this morning. Despite how much she’s changed, she’s also still very much the Diana he knew. She still fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. She still smiles at every child she sees. She is still patient, and kind, and affectionate. But there is something about her that seems just out of reach, locked away, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s because she realized that he was right—she may not be to blame for the evil in this world, but he is.

Alfred slides a mug of coffee across the counter. Steve smiles at him. “Thanks.”

“You seem preoccupied.”

Steve likes Alfred, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to share his thoughts. He shrugs and offers an explanation that, while true, is not the reason for his preoccupation. “I wish I could be out there with her.”

“I’m sure she wishes that too.”

Steve wraps his fingers around the wam mug. “Are you afraid when Bruce goes out as The Batman?”

Alfred sips his tea and considers the question. “Master Wayne has been chasing criminals for a long time. He’s very skilled. But he’s also human. It’s been a great comfort to me that he has Miss Prince and the other members of the League to watch out for him. But even still, I am often afraid.”

He sets his mug down. “Do you fear for her?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not the way you fear for Bruce. I’ve seen firsthand what she can do. Well, _saw_ ,” he corrects. “And if she’s had a hundred years to get even better…”

He thinks of the videos he’d watched on the internet, and the memories he has of her during the war.

“The sheer force of her determination is enough to topple empires,” he tells Alfred. “But she’s also a goddess. I don’t think there’s a single thing that’s ever been or ever will be that Diana couldn’t conquer.”

Alfred smiles. “I want to accuse you of bias, given how much you clearly care for her, but I, too, have seen what she can do. I suspect you’re right.”

Steve stares down into his coffee. He knows he’s right.

“You still fear for her, though,” Alfred says.

Steve smiles. “You would have been a good spy, Alfred. You read people well.”

Alfred sips his tea in response.

“I’m afraid for her heart,” Steve admits. “I’ve never met someone who cares like she does. The world was a cruel place one hundred years ago, and I think it’s only gotten crueler. I don’t even want to think about how many times it’s broken her heart.”

“You should take comfort in the fact that you’re here, then.”

“What do you mean?”

Alfred smiles. “Miss Prince doesn’t often speak of her past. But words are not the only way we communicate. Judging from Mr. Allen’s story earlier this afternoon, you were her greatest heartbreak. And judging by the expression on her face last night as she watched you sleep, your return has been her greatest joy.”

Steve feels his heart expand in his chest. “I hope so.”

* * *

Diana doesn’t say much on the way back to the Batcave.

Bruce doesn’t either. In his experience, she likes to process her thoughts before she shares them. But when he parks the Batmobile and she climbs out without even a glance in his direction, he realizes that she isn’t processing—she has no intention of discussing with him what just happened with Waller.

He pulls his cowl off and climbs out of the Batmobile. “You were pretty rough with her,” he calls out after her.

Diana goes still halfway to the stairs. He waits, leaning against the Batmobile. She turns around and fixes him with a cold stare.

“The Batman is going to lecture me about excessive force?”

“Not a lecture,” he clarifies. “Just an observation.”

She shakes her head. “How would you feel? If Waller had used Barry and your parents as pawns to get you to submit to her? If she had risked the timeline and their lives just to get what she wanted?”

“She wouldn’t have. Saving my parents wouldn’t have been like saving Steve, it would have altered the timeline so severely that—”

“For Zeus’ sake, Bruce, I don’t need a lecture about the space-time continuum. I understand it better than you do. I’m asking you how you would _feel_. Do you have feelings under that suit of yours?”

Hurt blossoms in his chest, sharp and hot. Remorse immediately spreads over her face.  

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That was unfair.”

“No it wasn’t,” he says. He looks down at his gloves, and then pulls them off. “I want to say I’d just be grateful to see them again.”

“But you can’t.”

He looks up at her. “She manipulated Barry. She used Steve, and then threatened to take him from you. If she’d used my parents like that against me, I’d have wanted to kill her.”

Diana raises her eyebrows as though he’s proved her point. He shakes his head.

“But you’re not me, Diana. You’re better than me. You’re the best of any of us. Even Kent, with his corn-fed golden boy schtick, doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “What’s your point?”

“I’ve never seen you lose your temper. Not even once, until today. He’s your kryptonite.”

Diana’s eyes blaze in anger. “He is _not_ a weakness, Bruce. Love is _not_ a weakness.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “That’s not what I meant. Let me rephrase.”

Anger still sparks in her eyes, but she waits.

“Waller was right. You’re the one they follow. You’re the one who defines us.” She doesn’t argue, and he’s glad—there would be no point. “Whatever you decide about A.R.G.U.S. and Constantine, I’ll back your play,” he continues, softening his voice. “But don’t forget who you are. Not because of someone like her.”

For a long moment, she says nothing. And then, finally, she nods.

The atmosphere between them changes quickly. There’s nothing left to say about Waller, not at the moment anyway, and there’s no League business to discuss. That leaves nothing else to talk about except _them_ , and Bruce is really not looking forward to that conversation.

He ducks his head and twists one of his gloves absently. “I know you need to get back to Paris. I’ve already got people working on Steve’s paperwork. Passport, birth certificate, and anything else he’s going to need to travel with you. Should be ready in a day or two.”

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods. “Of course.” He leaves his gloves and his cowl on the Batmobile and strides toward the stairs purposefully, but as he moves past her she reaches out and closes her fingers around his arm.

He goes still. She turns her head up toward him and he can feel her gaze on his face. He doesn’t look at her.  

“Can you look at me, please?” she murmurs.

He does. She turns her body to face his, and he follows suit so that her hand drops away from his arm. She’s still close, too close, and he curls his fingers into a fist so that he won’t be tempted to touch her.  

She chews her bottom lip absently. “If I’d known that Barry—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts her off. “You don’t owe me anything. What we had was just...”

_Just sex._

Bruce doesn’t say the words. Instead he opts to finish with a shrug, making sure that his expression is just right—slightly bored, hint of a smirk. He knows from experience that he doesn’t need to say the words. The implication alone is enough to make a woman recoil, to make her draw back into herself and realize that Bruce Wayne is no Prince Charming.

Diana doesn’t even flinch. She tilts her head at him, her eyes studying his face the same way she studies those who are wrapped in her lasso, and then she says calmly, “I know you prefer sex to be meaningless.”

“God, Diana,” he mutters, stunned by her candor.

“Am I wrong?” she asks.

He rakes a hand through his hair and tries to find something, anything to look at except her.

“It’s not about an emotional connection for you,” she continues when he doesn’t contradict her. “It’s a means to an end. You use women as a way to hide from the world. From yourself.”

He looks at her. “You think I used you?”

“No. That’s my point. You’re standing there with a smirk on your face trying to convince me that what we had was just sex because that’s easier. It hurts less than admitting that it meant something to you.”

Bruce stares at the floor. He finds himself suddenly remembering what Alfred said to him after meeting Diana for the first time. _I like her. She has even less time for your nonsense than I do._

Diana reaches out and grasps his chin, tilting his head up so that he has to look her in the eye. He thinks of that night in his kitchen, her hand on his chin just before he’d kissed her for the first time.

“It meant something to me too,” she confesses quietly.

He wants to kiss her. He shouldn’t, he knows, and he won’t, but he can’t help but reach for her, his fingers curling around her waist and pulling her close. She lets him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. Their foreheads brush. She smoothes one of her hands over the nape of his neck.

_Tell her_ , he thinks. _Tell her it meant something._

He can’t. He lifts his chin and presses his lips to her temple. “You’re really still in love with him?” he says against her skin. “After a century of being apart?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you too?”

She leans back. Her arms loosen from around his shoulders and her hands slide down to his biceps, but she doesn’t let him go. “He told me he did the night he died.” She shakes her head and stares over his shoulder. “But people say many things when they think it’s the end. There’s a lot we still have to learn about each other. And adjusting to this world isn’t going to be easy for him. I’m not going to assume that his feelings haven’t changed. Or that they won’t.”

It’s an honest confession that she doesn’t owe him, and he’s touched by it. It’s fitting, he thinks, that the woman the gods entrusted with a lasso of truth would never need to use it on herself. Dishonesty is as foreign to her as cruelty.

“He’d be a fool not to love you,” Bruce tells her. It’s as close as he can get to saying _He’s not the only one who does_.

He doesn’t say it, but the look in her eyes tells him that she knows anyway. She brushes her hand against his face. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Bruce.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

She leans forward and presses her lips against his cheek. “You’re a good man,” she whispers in his ear.

_But he’s better_ , Bruce thinks, closing his eyes.

She pulls away, stepping out of his grasp, and he doesn’t stop her. He watches her go. She hesitates on the bottom step of the staircase, and then turns around.

“About Barry,” she says.

“What about him?”

“He’s young. And impulsive. He’s going to make decisions that you don’t agree with. He needs to know that it’s the decision, and not him, that you disapprove of.”

Bruce sighs. “You want me to apologize.”

“I want you to understand why he did it. It wasn’t about me. Steve and I are stand-ins for a wound that he can’t figure out how to heal.”

“I can’t heal it for him, Diana.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to let him see that he’s not the only one who’s suffered.” She smiles. “Leading well doesn’t mean being invincible, Bruce. Sometimes it means being vulnerable.”

Bruce nods. He never could tell her no, even before he fell for her. “I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

Of all the places to be alone on Bruce’s massive property, the dock is Diana’s favorite.

She thinks it has something to do with the sound of the water. The lake that juts up against the mansion is nothing like the crystal clear waters of Themyscira. The acres of trees aren’t nearly as tall as the cliffs, and there is no smell of salt and sun in the air. Even still, it reminds her of home.

Sometimes, when a breeze blows across the lake and passes over her face, she closes her eyes and can almost imagine that she’s back home. There is no century of horrors sitting like a stone on her chest. She hasn’t yet broken her mother’s heart. Antiope is still alive. The plane that brought Steve into her life is just about to break across the horizon, and the plane that will eventually take him from her doesn’t exist yet.

The world has a way of creeping into those moments and reminding her that her daydream isn’t real. Sometimes it’s the sound of birds that didn’t exist on Themyscira. Sometimes it’s the dull buzz of her cell phone in her pocket, or the sound of Barry and Vic’s voices and Arthur’s booming laugh floating out through the windows of the house. Today it’s the hard, weather-beaten wood of the dock railing beneath her forearms. There is a nail pressing into her skin just beneath her right elbow. It doesn’t hurt, but she moves anyway.

She pulls Steve’s watch from her pocket and smoothes her thumb over the glass face. She could turn around right now and go into the house, find him, and wrap her arms around him. She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her hands, kiss the race of his pulse with her lips, whisper all the things she’s spent decades wishing she’d had the chance to say. Instead she stands bent over the railing of the dock, staring down at his watch, trying to breathe around the sharp pang of a feeling in her chest that, after nearly an hour of reflection, she’s finally been able to identify.

She’s afraid.

Behind her, there’s a gentle thudding sound. Diana glances over her shoulder. Clark is standing a few yards from her, his cape billowing around him. He gives her a small wave.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles and moves toward her, his eyes bright in the light of the setting sun. “I heard there was a bit of a Justice League reunion in Gotham last night. Can’t decide if my invitation got lost in the mail or if it was just never sent.”

She smiles wider. He stops next to her, his arms folded over his chest. “I called you and Bruce, but neither of you answered. So I texted Barry, and he told me that the two of you went to A.R.G.U.S. to beat up Amanda Waller for messing with your bae.”

Diana laughs. “He did not say that.”

“Direct quote,” Clark says with a laugh. “Needless to say I was intrigued.”

Diana shakes her head and looks out over the lake. “Who wouldn’t be after a description like that?”

Clark rests his forearms against the railing next to her. “You want to talk about it?”

If it were any other member of the League, she would say no. She loves each of them deeply, but loving them doesn’t mean she’s willing to bare her soul.

She has loved many people since coming to this world. She has even come close to falling _in_ love with a few of them. But there will always be parts of her that they cannot know because she does not have the words to share them. The beaches of Themyscira, the sternness of her mother, the fierceness of Antiope. The hope she used to have, and her now tenuous faith in the goodness of man.

Steve knows those parts. Steve knew her before she was Wonder Woman, back when she was just Diana, and she thinks maybe that’s why he’s the only person she’s ever allowed herself to fall in love with. He’s the only person who knows _all_ of her.   

Clark, though—Clark is not human. Clark has adopted the people of this world like she has. He is separated from Krypton and his people the way she is separated from Themyscira and her mother, though she at least can take comfort in the fact that her mother is alive and well. He owes mankind nothing, and they do not deserve him. But still, he’s here. And she’s here too.

So she tells him. She starts with what happened in 1918. She tells him about the plane explosion, and a century of wondering when her chest would stop aching at the thought of Steve. She talks about Amanda Waller’s manipulation of Barry, and Barry’s race back through time, and her reunion with Steve. She tells him what happened with Waller, and the way she lost her temper, and the promise of immortality.

When she’s finished, he lets out a slow breath. “Jeez, Diana,” he says.

He says it in a very Clark-like way, and she almost smiles. She is very fond of the Kansas parts of Clark.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“It’s a lot to process,” she admits.

“No kidding.”

She looks down at Steve’s watch and brushes her thumb over the face again.

“What’s that?” Clark asks.

“Steve’s watch. He gave it to me that night. Before he got on the plane.”

“And you kept it? For a century?”

She lifts a shoulder. “It was all I had left of him.”

“Except now you’ve got the real thing,” he points out. “So what are you doing standing out here alone?”

She sighs. “For Steve, 1918 was two days ago. For me, it’s been a century.” She looks out over the lake and closes the watch in her fist. “I’m not the same person that I was.”

“Did your feelings for him change?”

Perhaps they should have, she thinks. Maybe he should have slowly faded from her heart, until one day she woke up and he was just a fond memory. Maybe that is how humans deal with grief.

But Diana is not human.

“No.”

Clark nods. “But you’re afraid his will. Once he realizes that you’re not the same.”

This, she thinks, is why Clark is a good journalist. Not because his powers make him fearless enough to go toe-to-toe with anyone. Not because he is adept at weaving words into a story. It’s because he _sees_ people.

“I used to want to save the world,” she tells him. “When I met Steve, I was sure that I could.”

“And now you’re not?”

“I can defend it. From threats like Steppenwolf, and the others that will come. But I cannot save them from themselves.”

“We do the best we can, Diana. But we can’t force them to choose good. And I don’t think Steve will hold you responsible for their evil.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

She drops her gaze and looks down into the water of the lake. It’s February. It’s cold outside and she is not wearing a coat, but she feels no chill through the thinness of her blouse. There is an analogy in there somewhere, she thinks. Lois would find it. Something about how after a century in the world of man, the coldness of winter isn’t the only thing that the Amazonian warrior princess is unaffected by.

Steve was jaded when she met him. She was optimistic, expectant, and naive. She knows she frustrated him as much as she amused him. She also knows that it was her hopefulness that he fell in love with.

He called her an angel once, that night in Veld. The fire in the grate had long since gone out but it didn’t matter because they made their own, tangled in the sheets and each other, and it burned far brighter and warmer. It’s one of the most distinct memories she has from that night. Pressed beneath him, his mouth at her throat, his voice reverent.

_My angel._

She was his angel because she had saved those people in Veld, those men in the trenches, him. And now in the dark and cold of Gotham a hundred years later, she wonders how she could ever be his angel again when she feels so numb and weary.    

“I’m tired,” she says at last to Clark. “There will always be Lex Luthors and Amanda Wallers. They will always seek to destroy each other.” She looks at him. “At what point does defending them cease to be my responsibility? And what does it say about me that I would even ask?”

There is no judgment in his eyes. Only compassion, and understanding. “You’ve defended them for a century,” he says. “Have you ever thought about giving up?”

“Often.”

“And have you?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there are still people like Steve,” she says. “Barry, and Lois, and Alfred. People who deserve to live their lives in peace.”

Clark smiles. “I don’t know Steve. But I’m guessing if you asked him, he’d tell you that he’s felt tired before too. And I bet he got on that plane for the same reason you just told me you haven’t given up.”

A breeze picks up over the lake and blows the loose strands of hair that have fallen from Diana’s ponytail around her face. Clark’s cape flaps against her calves.

“I don’t doubt you’ve changed,” he says. “Any of us would over the course of a century. But not all change is bad, Diana. And there’s no shame in being tired.”

He leans closer, his shoulder pressing against hers in comfort.

“He might even love you more for it.”

Diana closes her eyes. She had often wished for a sibling while on Themyscira. She imagines that this is what it would have felt like to have one.

She tilts her head to the side so that it is resting on Clark’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she says.

She can’t see him, but she can hear his smile when he speaks. “I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know.”

“Sometimes it’s better to hear it from someone else.” She straightens and squeezes his forearm. “Bruce is probably in the Batcave. I’m sure he would like to see you.”

She turns to go as another breeze travels across the lake. Clark calls out after her.

“Hey, Di?”

She turns.

“I’m supposed to tell you that Lois really enjoyed the book you recommended to her. Something about the social constructionism parallels between ancient Greece and the United States.”

Diana smiles. “I’m glad she liked it.”

“She said it’s the best book she’s read in years. And also, that if it’s true you have a bae, she expects you to send a picture as soon as you’re not…”

The tops of his cheeks go pink.

“Otherwise occupied,” he finishes sheepishly.

She smiles wider. “Good night, Clark.”


	10. Ten

After his talk with Alfred, Steve wanders back into the living room to watch Barry scream at the TV some more. Barry offers to teach him how to play, but Steve has lived through a real war—he isn’t interested in playing a simulated version. He asks Barry whether there are any books in the house, and Barry directs him toward a library down the hall.

After stumbling into a few rooms that are not the library, Steve finally finds what he’s looking for. It’s a long room with a vaulted ceiling and tall shelves, overstuffed armchairs, and what must be thousands of books. For the first time all day, he feels his mind relax. No screens, no chirping noises from tiny rectangular phones, no oddly dressed people using slang that he doesn’t understand. Books are the same in this century as they were in the last, and he’s glad.

He walks along the shelves, his fingers traveling over the blistered spines, and wonders what kind of books Diana likes to read. He wonders if she reads modern books now, or if she sticks with the ancient Greeks and their terribly depressing tragedies because they remind her of home. Maybe she picked up an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel after the war was over. Maybe Etta had kept her so busy reading suffragette pamphlets that there was no time for anything else.

A pang of sorrow arcs through Steve’s chest at the thought of Etta. He thinks of Sammy and Charlie and Chief. All of them are gone now. It’s just him.

It’s suddenly intolerable that Diana isn’t here. Steve reaches for the nearest book and pulls it off the shelf, hoping for something to distract him from the ache of missing her. He glances at the cover and notices the word _poetry_. He crinkles his nose. He’s not much of a poetry guy. He turns the book over, glancing at the author biography on the back cover, and stops short at the dates of birth and death: 1894-1962. This man would have lived through the war—maybe even fought in it.

Steve opens the book and notices immediately that there are virtually no capital letters. Intrigued, he reads the poem he’s opened to. _i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)._ When he finishes, his breath is caught in his throat. He reads it again, and then again. He picks another page, reads another poem. _your slightest look will easily unclose me._ And another. _i like my body when it is with your body._ And another. _love is more thicker than forget._

The poems make him miss her even more, so he slides the book back into its place and moves toward another set of shelves. He pulls down another book, a hardcover with a train on the front and the word _murder_ in the title. He flips through the front pages, looking for a publication date, and is relieved when he sees 1936. Hopefully there won’t be any technology references he doesn’t understand.

He sits in an armchair and reads for a while. It’s an interesting story, but every few pages he gets distracted by memories of riding a train with Diana to the front. He remembers her reaction to ice cream, and kicks himself for not asking her if they could stop for some after lunch.

After a while, he decides that it might be easier to focus on the story if he had some coffee. He sets the book down on his chair and goes back to the kitchen, but stops short when he gets to the coffeemaker.

He can’t remember how to work it.

He doesn’t want to bother Barry, and Alfred is nowhere in sight. He puts a mug underneath the spout, and then presses some buttons, but nothing happens. He remembers suddenly that he needs to put one of those little pods into the machine, and he fishes one out of a nearby drawer and puts it in. The machine starts to blink at him, a soft and eerie blue light. Steve punches the buttons once, then twice. Nothing happens. The lights just keep blinking.

“Shit,” he mutters.  

He peers around the corner into the living room.

“Hey Barry?”

“Huh,” Barry grunts.

“Do you know where Alfred is?”

“Probably in the Batcave.”

Steve waits, but Barry doesn’t look away from the TV.

“And that’s where?” he prompts.

“Down the hall, left, right, right, take the elevator down.”

It’s not the best set of directions, but Steve already feels bad enough for interrupting. He leaves the coffee machine blinking and heads down the hallway. He wracks his brain, trying to remember when he followed Diana to the elevator earlier this afternoon, and somehow he manages to retrace her steps.

 _Still got it_ , he thinks with a smirk when he sees the doors he’s looking for.

Once inside the elevator he presses the buttons he remembers her pressing and hopes for the best. When the elevator stops, he steps carefully out onto the floor and looks around.

Before him is a glass wall that looks out over the rest of the two-story Batcave. To his right is a wide corridor. He thinks the part of the Batcave he’s looking for is down the corridor and to the left, but just as he starts forward he spots Diana through the glass, standing down on the first level near the Batmobile. He pauses, struck by the sight of her in her armor.

She’s not alone. Bruce is there too, and Steve realizes belatedly that they’re actually standing very close together. Bruce isn’t wearing his mask. He is staring at the floor, and Diana is staring at him, and then Steve watches as she lifts her hand, puts it beneath Bruce’s chin, and raises his face up to look at her.

Jealousy flares in the pit of his stomach. He grits his teeth against it. Diana and Bruce are friends. They save the world together. There are a million reasons why they could be standing that close and talking that intently. A million reasons why—

Bruce reaches out, curves his fingers around Diana’s hips, and draws her closer. There’s something possessive about his hands on her. Something intimate. This isn’t the first time he has pulled her close, and this isn’t the first time she has let him. Steve watches as Diana shifts even closer, lifting her arms to drape them around Bruce’s shoulders, tilting her head forward so that their foreheads are together and their lips are only a breath apart.

Steve turns away. He stands frozen for a moment, his heart pounding. He’s certain that if he turns back around, he will see Diana kissing Bruce. So he doesn’t turn around. He gets back on the elevator, rides it up to the house’s main floor, and gets off. He’s walking blindly back toward the kitchen when he runs into Alfred.

“Captain Trevor? Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

Steve forces a smile. “Just got tired all of a sudden. Do you, uh, have an empty bedroom I could use? I think I’ll head to bed early.”

Alfred nods. “Of course. Miss Prince’s room is—”

“No,” Steve blurts out.

Alfred blinks at him.

“Just an empty room,” Steve says.

Alfred looks as though he has something he wants to say, but chooses not to say it. Instead he nods, and leads Steve to an empty bedroom. There is a bed, and a dresser, and windows looking out at acres of trees. It’s far smaller than the room he slept in last night, and there is no spectacular view of the lake. Steve realizes that Diana must have taken him to her room last night. He wonders how Bruce feels about that.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Alfred asks.

Steve nods. “Yep. Totally fine. Thanks.”

Alfred hesitates for a moment, and then bows his head and walks away. Steve enters the room, closes the door behind him, and then shuffles across the floor and collapses onto the bed.

He’s not sure how long he lays there, staring at the ceiling. An hour. Maybe two. He doesn’t have his watch anymore to check. He gave it to Diana.

He feels so stupid. He’s been gone for a _century_. Of course she’s moved on. Of course she’s fallen in love with someone else. How could he expect a woman like her to wait around? There wasn’t even anyone to wait _for_. He was dead. Gone. Incinerated.

He scrubs a hand over his face. He’s sure that she took him to her room last night out of kindness. He’d just traveled through time, and he was confused, and what was she supposed to do when he asked her to sleep with him—tell him she was sorry he traveled all that way but she had a new guy who dressed like a bat and she was going to go sleep with him instead?

Oh, God, and he’d _kissed_ her too. Right in front of Bruce. No wonder the guy seemed so grumpy all the time. Steve would be grumpy too if someone from the past traveled to the future and immediately stuck his tongue down Diana’s throat.

She had kissed him back though. In front of Bruce, too. But that was just...she was probably just happy to see him, right? The intensity of it, and the way her hands shook as she held his face—it was just shock. Nostalgia, maybe. They’d had something back in 1918. He loved her, and he likes to think she loved him too. She just got swept away in the moment. That’s all.

Steve rolls over and stares morosely at the window on the far wall. He can’t stay here. Alfred is kind, and he likes Barry, and the idea of finding his way in this new world without Diana at his side makes him sick to his stomach. But what else can he do? Watching her be in love with someone else is going to be far worse than being away from her.

A firm knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. Steve frowns. He decides to ignore it and pretend to be asleep. He’s certain that it’s not Diana—she’s probably still wrapped in Bruce’s arms, and they are probably trying to figure out how to break the news to him gently.

Another knock. Steve sighs, rolls off the bed, crosses the room, and swings the door open.

It’s Diana.

She isn’t wearing her armor anymore. She’s back in the same black leather pants she wore earlier, and a white long-sleeve shirt that is so thin it’s nearly see through. It’s loose-fitting but somehow still clings to her in all the right places and Steve wonders why, on top of all the the other gifts the gods had given her, they had to add heart-stoppingly beautiful to the list. He forces himself to look at her face.

She smiles. “Hi.”

Blood roars through his veins, hot and quick and wanting and seriously, how is he this in love with a woman that he has barely known for a week?

“Hi,” he says back.

The smile fades a little from her lips. “Are you alright?”

He leans against the door frame in what he hopes passes for casual. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t move out of the doorway and invite her in. He doesn’t ask her how it went with Amanda Waller. He wants to do both of these things but he can’t get the memory of Bruce’s hands on her out of his mind and so he does neither.

“Oh,” she says.

Two very faint lines appear between her eyebrows. She’s confused, and maybe a little hurt by his coldness, and he can’t bear it. It’s not her fault that he showed up out of the blue. She had no idea Barry was planning to do what he did. It’s not her fault that he found out about her and Bruce the way he did, either. And it’s certainly not her fault that he went and jumped on that plane and blew himself and their future up.

“If you’re not busy,” he says quietly, “maybe we could talk.”

She nods. “I’d like that.”

He steps out of the doorway and gestures into the room. She passes by him and he’s suddenly reminded of Veld, of holding the door open for her and then trying to leave but being stopped in his tracks by a look with so much heat that it felt as though she’d seared a mark into his skin.

A hundred years later he hesitates at another door. He could leave it open. But if she’s about to break his heart, he thinks he’d like to have it closed just in case Barry wanders by and is tempted to pop his head in and ask what they’re doing.

Steve shuts the door. Diana is standing in the center of the room, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She’s watching him, waiting. He takes a deep breath.

“I wanted to say I was sorry.”

Her head tilts. “For what?”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “When Barry brought me back I was a little overwhelmed at the whole not-being-dead thing.”

She nods. “Understandably so.”

“And when you told me it was 2018, I knew that was a hundred years but I didn’t, um, I didn’t realize what that meant.”

The lines are back between her eyebrows. Now he’s thinking about their conversation on the boat, and her adorable confusion over sleeping arrangements and marriage. _So you cannot sleep with me unless you marry me?_

Great. Now he’s thinking about sleeping with her.

“You’ve lived a hundred years without me,” he says, trying to focus. “And that’s a really long time. And I just, I didn’t think about the fact that you might have moved on. So I kissed you in front of—”

 _Bruce_ , he nearly says.

“Everyone,” he says instead. “And then last night,” he adds as an afterthought. He rubs his temples and tries to forge through the embarrassment. “I should have asked some questions first. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

She shakes her head. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

He sighs and slides his hands into his pockets. “I saw you with Bruce. Down in the Batcave.”

Understanding dawns over her face. “I see,” she murmurs.

He realizes, belatedly, how it sounds. “I wasn’t spying,” he assures her. “I was looking for Alfred, actually, because I think I broke the coffeemaker. And then I saw you and I stopped—”

 _To stare at you_ , he almost finishes, but he catches himself in time because it’s been a hundred years and she is still as impossibly beautiful as the first time he saw her but she’s not his, and he can’t—you can’t just stare at people that aren’t yours. He thinks of that night in Veld, of her skin and her lips and her voice in his ear but he can’t enjoy the memory because he sees her in Bruce’s arms now, the elegant curve of her back beneath another man’s fingertips, her arms around another man’s shoulders, and the words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“How long have you guys been together?”

She shakes her head. “We’re not.”

“But you guys are…I mean, you’ve…”

His face flushes. Why is he such an idiot? Does she even know what he’s asking?

He looks up at her and realizes she does. She’s tilting her head again, and he sees the sympathy in her eyes.

“Yes,” she says simply.

He loves this about her—the way she tells the truth without hesitation, even without the burny rope of truth (which is what he calls it even though she’s told him its proper name multiple times).

It stings to imagine her arched in Bruce’s bed, to imagine her breathing another man’s name, but it’s been so long for her. There must have been others before Bruce. He _hopes_ there were others. He hopes she found people who adored her the way she should be adored and he hopes that she never felt lonely, not even for a second.

But it also stings like hell.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wanted to tell you this afternoon—”

Her apology brings him roaring back to his senses. “No,” he interrupts decisively, maybe a little too decisively judging by the way she arches one perfect eyebrow at him. “No,” he repeats, quieter this time. “You shouldn’t be sorry about that. I’m glad you moved on. I’m glad you have Bruce, and that there were others—”

He pauses. “There were others, right?”

She nods. It stings again, even though he knew it was coming, but he forges on.

“I’m glad. I want you to be happy, Diana, and loved, and I don’t want you to be sorry. As far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t be sorry about anything ever.”

“Ever?” she echoes.

He can hear the trap in her voice but he isn’t sure what it is, or where she’s leading him, and for the hundredth time he thinks that she is different than the woman he knew, but somehow just the same.

“Ever,” he confirms.

The corner of her mouth turns upward into a smirk. “I seem to remember you quite adamantly demanding an apology from me once before.”

He frowns. He did? When did he...oh. _Oh_.

“Yes, well,” he says, trying for dignified and certain he fails horribly. “You stole all the blankets and I was cold.”

Heat sparks in her eyes and he feels it in his blood, electric like lightning in a summer thunderstorm. “You didn’t stay cold,” she reminds him.

She needn’t have. He remembers. He closes his eyes and wills all his blood to stop rushing south. “Look,” he says, clearing his throat and forcing himself to open his eyes again. “I’m trying to be a good guy here, Diana. And it’s really, really hard because you’re…”

He gestures at her, at her leather pants and clingy shirt and her dark, beautiful eyes.

“You,” he finishes lamely after a too-long pause. “And if you’re with someone else—”

“But I’m not,” she interrupts. “I told you, Steve. Bruce and I are not together. We were…” She pauses, seemingly unable to find a word. “Something,” she decides. “But not anymore. What you saw was the goodbye.”

Steve thinks his heart might pound right out of his chest. “Who ended it?”

She purses her lips around a smile and shakes her head. “You are such a man.”

“Hey, that’s a valid question,” he protests. “If he’s the one who ended it and now you’re heartbroken, then—”

“I’m not heartbroken,” she cuts him off, rolling her eyes a little.

“So you’re the one who ended it.”

“It was mutual,” she insists.

He ignores her. “Why’d you end it?”

She holds his gaze unblinkingly. “Because he’s not you.”

Steve has never in his life—either before or after his resurrection—wanted anything as badly as he wants to cross the room and take her face in his hands and kiss the smirk from her lips. He wants to press her body down onto the bed and bury his hands in her hair, wants to move his mouth along the column of her neck until he can taste the throb of her pulse beneath his lips.

“So you still…” he starts, then stops, then sighs. He used to be an articulate guy, before he met her. “We didn’t get a lot of time together,” he tries again. “And it’s been a hundred years. But you still…?”

Diana smiles. “I still.” Her smile fades a little. “But there are a lot of things that are different now.”

“Like how much clothes cost.”

She smiles again. “Yes. But other things, too. Myself included. And I think it might be best for you to take some time to get reacquainted with everything before you make any serious decisions about your future.”

“And by serious decisions about my future, you mean whether or not I want to spend it with you.”

She nods. “Yes.”

He nods too. “Right. Well, here’s the thing.” He takes a step toward her. “I don’t need time. I don’t care what’s changed. I don’t care if it’s the 20th century or the 21st or the 38th. I want you.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t know that, Steve. You’ve barely seen any of this world. All you know of it is me. Don’t you want to find out what is out there before you tie yourself to someone? What if there are things you want to do? Or other people you might love?”

“How could I love someone else after loving you?” he asks incredulously.

She blinks at him, clearly startled, and for the briefest of moments he thinks he’s said exactly the right thing to her, the thing that will break down whatever resistance she seems to have and bring her across the room and into his arms. But then her expression smoothes back into something guarded and careful, and she twists her hands together absently.

“Steve—”

“Diana,” he cuts her off. “If I’d survived the war, if I’d somehow gotten off that plane and found my way back to you, would we have been together? Would you have wanted to be with me?”

“Of course.”

“But I was all you knew,” he says. “I was the first man you ever laid eyes on. How could you have possibly known that I was what you wanted?”

She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head at him but says nothing. He thinks its because she can’t argue with his logic, but he can’t read the look on her face.

“It can’t be okay for you and not for me,” he says to her. “That’s not fair.”

“But I chose this,” she argues. “I chose to get on that boat and go with you. You didn’t choose for Barry to pull you from that plane. You didn’t choose to live in a new century with new people and new customs that you don’t understand.”

“The alternative was death, Diana. I was _dead_.”

Anguish chases across her expression. “I’m aware.”

He stops, ashamed that he so casually mentioned something that clearly hurts her. He keeps forgetting that he has no idea what it was like for her. He pulled the trigger, sure, and that was hard, but she had to _watch_ it. He thinks of Barry talking about the way she screamed, about how it sounded as though someone had ripped her heart out.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I didn’t mean to…”

She shakes her head slightly, as if to say it’s okay, but she won’t look at him.

He takes another tentative step toward her. “I would have, you know.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his. “Would have what?”

“Chosen this. If Barry had asked me if I wanted to travel a hundred years into the future to see you again, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.”

Her gaze travels over his face, studying him the way he watched her study so many things when he first brought her to the world, and he stands as still as he can and lets her size him up.

“I’ve done what you’re going to have to do,” she says quietly. “All the newness...it’s difficult. Exhausting.”

He gives her a crooked smile. “I’m a spy. I can handle difficult and exhausting. Maybe not as well as you, but we can’t all be immortal divine beings with unlimited power.”

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“Besides,” he says, taking another step toward her. “I’ll have you. You can show me how it’s done. If you’re willing.”

“If I’m willing?” she repeats, her voice lilting into a laugh of disbelief.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “I know you’ve got a life now. A job, and a home, and friends. I don’t want to intrude.”

Her expression grows serious again. “That’s not what this is about, Steve. You’re not an imposition.”

“You’re too kind to tell me even if I am,” he points out. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me the truth.” He squints. “Well,” he amends after a moment’s thought. “It will. But I’ll get over it.”

She watches him, and he thinks he can see a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I’m not a liar.”

“Of course not.”

“Then you should believe me when I say that you are not intruding.”

“And do you believe me?” he counters. “When I say that I would have chosen this?”

She considers the question. “I want to,” she admits, her voice soft.

“But you don’t.”

She presses her lips together and says nothing.

He closes the distance between them until he’s standing right before her. He lifts his hands and holds them out in the space between them, his palms up and wrists out. She glances down, and he watches the recognition dawn on her face.

“Steve...”

“I know you have it,” he murmurs. She raises her gaze to meet his. “Please, Diana.”

She hesitates for a moment, the uncertainty clear on her face. And then she reaches under her blouse and pulls out her lasso. She loops it around his wrists once, twice, and though it’s a loose bind it presses into his skin with a familiar bite. It isn’t as hot as he remembers. It just burns a little, almost pleasantly, and he wonders if that’s because he has no intention of lying to her.

She runs her fingers over the length of what’s wrapped around his wrists, as if to check that it isn’t too tight. He watches her face, her eyebrows knit in concentration, and suddenly his mouth is moving and he is speaking and he has no idea what he’s saying until he hears it.

“Sometimes when I look at you I forget how to breathe.”

Her fingers go still on his wrists. She doesn’t look up at him but he keeps on looking at her, faintly embarrassed by the adoration in his tone but somehow glad, too, because he wouldn’t have said it without the lasso but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t know.

She curls her fingers around his wrists, lifts his hands to her mouth, and kisses his knuckles. Her eyes meet his over their joined hands and he slants toward her, a moth to a flame.

“Ask me something,” he says, voice hoarse. “Anything. Whatever you want to know.”

She takes a small step toward him, pushing his hands down beneath her chin, and his knuckles bump into her collarbone. “Are you afraid?” she whispers.

“Terrified.”

“Of what?”

“That at some point in the past century you’ve realized just how _not_ above average I am. That you think you feel the same way you did, but you don’t. You’re just homesick, or nostalgic, and in a week or a month or a year you’re going to wake up and want something else with someone else and I’m going to have to figure out how to live in this world without you.”

Her gaze melts immediately into tenderness but he’s not done, the lasso burns, and he has so much more to say.

“I shouldn’t love you this much this soon,” he tells her. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know how crazy this is? I’m a spy, Diana, a soldier, and we don’t do things like this. We don’t have feelings, we don’t make plans, we don’t wish for lives that we can’t have.”

She reaches for his wrists, for the lasso wrapped around them, but he pulls away from her grasp. “No.”

“Steve—”

“No, listen,” he insists. He cradles her face in his hands, the lasso glowing bright against his skin. “You are an actual goddess. You are a princess, an Amazon, and I _know_ I don’t deserve you. I _know_ that. But I don’t care. I’m too selfish to care. I just want to be as close to you as I can get for as long as you’ll let me.”

She crashes her lips against his. The force of it sends him back a step in surprise but then he surges forward, his hands still on her face, his body pushing against hers until he backs her into the dresser and it rocks back hard against the wall. Diana makes a sound in the back of her throat and digs her fingers into his hips almost painfully hard. She parts her lips beneath his and Steve kisses her deeply and desperately, frantic to make her understand with his body what he can’t seem to get right with his words.

He wants to touch her but his hands are trapped, bound by the lasso, and so he keeps them framed on her face, thumbs stroking over her cheeks. He could ask her to take it off but he likes the heat of it burning against his skin, and the freedom of knowing that he doesn’t have to agonize over what to say and whether to say it because the lasso will bring it out no matter what reservations he has.

“I love you,” he says into her mouth almost immediately after the thought. “You’re beautiful. I love you.”

He’s babbling, he knows, but it’s true, every word of it, it has to be. His confession seems to have an effect on her. Her breath hitches and she makes another sound deep in her throat, arching away from the dresser and into him. She reaches up and yanks the lasso off of his wrists, tossing it to the side, and then winds her arms around his neck. He immediately lets his hands roam over her body, dipping beneath the back of her blouse so that he can trace the bare skin at the bottom of her spine with his fingertips.

He feels a shudder drill through her, and she breaks their kiss to suck in a breath. He is stupidly, ridiculously pleased that he’s able to inspire any type of reaction in her, let alone a reaction like this, but when she lowers her mouth and her teeth graze over the pulse point on the side of his neck he forgets his pride. She sucks on his skin hard, and his hips jerk against hers as he gasps out a ragged, “ _Diana_ ,” in response.

She finds his mouth again and kisses him until he is dazed and drunk on her. He pushes her back against the dresser but it’s too unstable, too awkward, and he wants to be able to feel every inch of her against him. He bends forward, his hands sliding down to the backs of her thighs, and she digs her fingers into his shoulders as he lifts her long legs and wraps them around his hips. He turns them away from the dresser and moves toward the bed, mouth still fused to hers.

He lowers her onto the mattress gently. She responds in kind. Her touch turns soft, her mouth yielding against his, and the tenderness of it makes his breath catch in his throat. This is the woman who can flip a tank, who can burst through concrete as though it were paper. He must seem so fragile to her. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice tells him that he should care, that _he_ should be the one protecting _her_ , but he dismisses the thought the second it arrives. He doesn’t care. She is a goddess and he is just a man. He’s ready to leave his pride on the altar for a chance to worship.

He pulls away from her lips, wanting to see her. She gazes up at him. He reaches for her hair band like he did last night. She rises up to her elbows, their faces drawing close again, so that he can slide the band out. Her hair falls free, dark and exquisite, and he combs a hand through it.

“Steve,” she says, her voice low and unsteady.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, her temple, her cheek. He wants to say something, wants to tell her all the other things that he knows the lasso would have brought out if she hadn’t taken it off, but the emotion is too thick in his throat. He feels her shift beneath him, her smooth cheek sliding along the stubble of his jaw as she puts her mouth by his ear.

“I love you,” she whispers. Her breath is hot against the shell of his ear, and he closes his eyes and tries to ignore the painful realization that he does not deserve this or her. She pulls his earlobe into her mouth, her teeth and her tongue sliding along his skin, and he shudders hard. “I love you,” she breathes again.

He turns his face and brushes his lips over hers. She opens her mouth to him, her body arching up against his, and then he’s gone, consumed by the roaring fire of his heart and the silk of her hair beneath his fingers and the taste of her that he’ll never, ever tire of.


	11. Eleven

Afterward, Steve tries very, very hard to stay awake.

Diana watches him, a smile on her face that she doesn’t try to hide. He is next to her in bed, both of them on their sides and facing each other beneath the sheets. She is propped up on her elbow, her temple resting against her palm, but his head is on his pillow and his eyes are drooping closed.

“You’re laughing at me,” he drawls, his voice low.

“No,” she says, but her smile is wide. She brushes a hand through his hair. “Go to sleep, Steve.”

“Don’t wanna.”

She leans forward and presses her lips against his forehead. “Go to sleep.”

She leans away but he rises up, chasing her mouth, and presses his lips to hers. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Her heart clenches and then unfurls in her chest. “I promise,” she whispers.

That seems to be enough. He kisses her again and then sighs contentedly, collapses onto his pillow, and in another moment he’s fast asleep.

Diana watches him. She watches the way his chest and his shoulders rise and fall, slow and even. She studies the planes of his face, the jut of his collarbone, the tan of his skin beneath the crisp white sheet. Longing builds in her chest and she tries to ignore it, tries to let the work of her eyes be enough, but it’s not.

She stretches out her hand and runs the tips of her fingers along his skin. Last night, in her bed instead of his, she had snapped awake almost hourly, certain that it was all a dream. His body against hers and his arm around her shoulders had calmed her. His heartbeat thudding in her ear when she laid her head on his chest had lulled her back to sleep. Now it’s his skin that calms her, bare and warm under her touch.

In all her years in man’s world, she has never told any of her partners _I love you_. She has been with many since that night in Veld, some for extended periods and some for a single night, but she did not feel about any of them the way she feels about Steve. There were a few that she knows she would have fallen in love with, had she allowed herself to stay long enough. But each of them seems like nothing more than a dim shadow now, a blurred memory that she can’t bring into focus and doesn’t care to. There’s only Steve, and the languid warmth of her sated muscles, and a future that is stretched out before them like some kind of shining, impossible dream.     

_I can make him immortal._

Diana knows that she will have to tell Steve about Amanda Waller’s offer. There are a lot of things she’ll have to tell him when he wakes up, confessions of her own that she wants to whisper in the circle of his arms as though she’s wrapped herself in her own lasso.

She presses her fingertips gently against his neck. The strong beat of his pulse thrums beneath her touch, and she closes her eyes and concentrates on it as she lowers herself down onto her pillow. She takes a deep breath, and wills her heartbeat to match his. Eventually, she falls asleep.

* * *

Diana wakes to the sound of a soft curse being muttered on the other side of Steve’s bedroom door.

She is immediately alert, her muscles coiled, but she does not leap from the bed. At some point in her slumber she must have rolled over. Steve has wrapped himself around her from behind, his chest pressed against her shoulder blades and his arm draped around her waist. She can tell by the evenness of his breathing against the back of her neck that he is still asleep.

She doesn’t want to wake him so she listens, straining to hear. A second later, a pattern of sharp knocks is rapped out against the door.

Diana smiles. That’s how Barry knocks.

She is naked and warm in her cocoon of sheets and Steve, but she knows she has to answer the door. If it were her bedroom, Barry wouldn’t dream of opening the door without permission. But for the male members of the League—and, she suspects, Steve as well—Barry has remarkably less respect for privacy. He will knock, wait, knock again, and then burst in regardless of whether or not he’s been invited.

One hundred years in the world of man or no, she is still an Amazon. She is not uncomfortable with nakedness, whether it is her own or someone else’s. But Barry is not an Amazon, and she does not want to startle him with a sight that he is not prepared to see.

So, she sighs a little and forces herself to get up. Steve is still asleep, so she lifts his arm gently and slides slowly out of his embrace and onto the floor. She glances around the room, trying to find her clothes, but Steve’s button-down shirt is the closest thing and Barry is on his second knock. She shrugs it on, buttons it up, and then opens the door.

Barry is standing in the hallway, bouncing from foot to foot with a stack of books in his hand. His eyes widen at the sight of her and then widen again when he realizes what she’s wearing—or, rather, _not_ wearing. He gapes at her bare legs, his mouth hanging open as though he is a cartoon, and then he jolts to attention and immediately turns away from her.

“Ohmygod,” he yelps. He lifts one of his hands to cover his eyes, seems to realize that’s a ridiculous thing to do, and scrubs it down his face instead. “Sorry. I was, uh, Alfred must’ve told me the wrong room. I was looking for...”

“Steve?” Diana offers.

“Yeah, yep, him,” Barry says. “Must’ve got the rooms confused.”

“No, you were right. This is Steve’s room.”

Barry turns his head slowly to look at her.

Diana smiles and leans her head against the door. “He’s asleep.”

“Right,” Barry says. His eyes drift down toward the undone top button on Steve’s shirt, and then snap back up.

“Umm,” he says, drawing out the syllable.

Diana lifts her eyebrows.

“Books!” he sputters. He holds the pile of books up between them like a shield. “I was talking to him earlier and he said he just wanted to see a good old fashioned book, and I was kind of in _Call of Duty_ mode so I might’ve ignored him and now I feel bad about it so I looked up what was popular back when he was alive—not that he’s not alive now, he is, it’s just—well you know what I mean. Anyway. He said he likes legs—”

Barry freezes, his expression horrified. “ _Books_!” he all but shouts at her. “He said he likes _books_. And I brought some. Here.”

He shoves them at her unceremoniously. She smiles. “That’s very kind of you, Barry.”

“Yeah,” he says running a hand nervously through his hair. He looks down one end of the hallway, then the other, anywhere but at her. He always seems as if he’s vibrating, but right now he’s buzzing at an entirely new speed.

“I’ll make sure he gets these,” Diana tells him.

“Great,” he says. “Awesome. Sorry to bother you. I didn’t realize you guys were—”

He stops abruptly. She smirks at him and his unfinished sentence. His face flushes a deep crimson.

“See ya,” he says, and then he zooms away without another word.

The ends of Steve’s shirt flutter against her thighs with the wind of his departure. Diana grins at the now empty space before her and then turns back into the room and closes the door.

She surveys the spines of the books, reading the titles and authors. She spots Edgar Rice Burroughs, and smiles at the memory. Steve will be glad to have this one.

“That was mean.”

Diana looks up. Steve is propped up on his elbows, the sheet slung around his waist. She lets her gaze dip over the muscles of his chest and abdomen, and then smiles when she glances up to see his gaze trailing over her legs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says innocently.

“He nearly had an aneurysm.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“You’ve ruined him. How’s he supposed to stick to mortal women after seeing those legs?”

“He’s already seen my legs,” Diana points out. “I fight in a skirt.”

“You fight in armor,” Steve says, his eyes lingering on her chest. “You don’t stare at a woman in armor.”

She smirks at him. “Didn’t stop you.’

“Yeah, well, you started it.”

She thinks of the bathing cave and the way he’d stood bare before her, clearly unsure whether to be embarrassed, flattered, or proud. She crosses the room toward the bed.

“He brought you books,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and setting the stack of books between them. “Did he ignore you earlier? For his video games?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nah, he was fine.” He rifles through the books and stops on the Burroughs one. He frowns at the cover. “I’ve never heard of this one.”

“Start with that one then,” she says. She stacks the others and starts to rise from the bed, but Steve reaches out and catches her arm.

“Whoa, wait,” he says. She looks down at him and he grins. He tugs on her arm, and though he’s not nearly strong enough to pull her back down she lets him do so anyway. “Where are you going?” he asks, sliding toward her.

“To put your books on the dresser,” she says.

He pushes the stack out of her hands, and the books topple onto the floor with a few loud thuds. He tosses the Burroughs novel, and it thumps down on top of the others.

“Steve,” she protests.

He ignores her, curls his fingers around the side of her neck, and pulls her in for a kiss. Her body reacts immediately, heat searing through her veins. Her hands seem to have a mind of their own as they reach out and smooth over the planes of his chest and stomach, tracing patterns over the contours of his muscle.

Steve moves his mouth down to her throat and sucks hard, and Diana wonders if he will be disappointed when he realizes that he cannot leave his mark on her the way he could on another woman.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he says, his hands finding the buttons of her shirt.

“I’m hardly wearing any clothes,” she counters. She tilts her head to give him better access and he takes advantage and trails his lips down her neck.

“Still too many,” he mutters.

He unbuttons the first button of her shirt. She closes her eyes and tries to focus.

“Steve.”

“Hmm,” he says, moving his mouth down to her collarbone.

She puts her hands on his head, stroking her fingers through his hair. “Steve.”

Another button undone. He dips his head lower, starting to push the shirt to the side, and she tightens her grip on his head and pulls his mouth away from her skin.

“Steve.”

He blinks at her, confused. His lips are swollen and his pupils are dilated and she really, really wants to just let him have his way with her.

“We have to talk,” she says instead, trying to convince herself as much as him.

He frowns. “About what?”

“Amanda Waller.”

He doesn’t say anything, his eyes fixed on the gap of her shirt which is spread almost wide enough for him to see her chest. She purses her lips around a smile and buttons her shirt back up.

Steve frowns at his disappearing view, glances up to meet her gaze, and then smiles unashamedly when he realizes he’s been caught. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m really not.”

He grins at her, and she grins too, and she has no choice but to lean forward and kiss him soundly. She lingers close to him after their lips part, her eyes closed, basking in the warmth of his presence after so many years of coldness.

“Okay,” he sighs, bumping his nose against hers before he leans away. “What about Amanda Waller?”

Diana leans back. “You were right. It wasn’t about Barry. It was about me. You were meant to be a gift.”

He nods. “She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who gives a gift without expecting something in return.”

“No.”

“So what’s she want?”

“For her agency to oversee the Justice League.” Diana sighs. “She thinks I can convince the other members to agree.”

“Could you?” Steve asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

Diana thinks of the League. Bruce, his back bent but unbroken beneath the weight of the world, and his words down in the Batcave. _Whatever you decide, I will back your play._ Clark’s unassuming smile and his kind eyes, and the quiet understanding that hums between them as adopted protectors of a planet that often reacts with suspicion instead of gratitude. Vic and his gleaming cybernetics, the way he flinched the first time she brushed her hand over the metallic of his arm, and the wonder in his eye when he realized that it didn’t matter to her that he was half machine. Arthur’s booming laugh and the respect for her that’s emphatic in his voice, even when he’s teasing her. Barry’s quiet crying into her shoulder, and the way he looks at her as though she hung the moon.

“Probably,” she admits.

Steve smiles. “Well you know Barry would do anything you asked him to. Even before he saw you half naked.”

Diana rolls her eyes but cannot help a smile.

“You don’t want the League under her control,” Steve observes, serious again.

She shakes her head. “No, but I don’t like the idea of _any_ kind of government control. Governments are made of men, and men are volatile and petty.” She smiles. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling.

Diana looks down at the sheets and twists them absently between her fingers. “The members of the League are heroes to many. But to others we are weapons, ready and waiting to be used. Waller is one of those people. She is a psychopath, and she has used another group before us for her own purposes. Working with her would be difficult at best—and dangerous at worst.”

“So did you tell her no?”

“Yes.”

“And how’d she take it?”

Diana reaches out and brushes his hair back from his forehead. “She threatened to take you back.”

Steve catches her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. He smiles up at her. “I’d like to see her try.”

“I wouldn’t let her,” Diana promises.

“I know that. And I’m guessing she does too.”

Diana thinks of her fingers around Waller’s neck. “If she didn’t before, she does now.”

Steve watches her. It’s clear he knows that something happened in the bunker between her and Waller, but he doesn’t ask. He sets her hand in his lap, turning it palm up, and traces the lines of her palm beneath his fingers.

“You know,” he says, “she could have done this differently. She could have forced Barry to take me straight back to her instead of bringing me to you. She could have held me hostage until you agreed.” He looks up at her. “Why’d she let you have me back first? Why’d she wait for you to go to her?”

“Maybe she thought I’d agree out of gratitude.”

“Honeymoon haze,” he supplies with a smile.

She matches his smile. “Yes. Returning you paints her as a benevolent leader. Barry tells me it was her idea and that she asked for nothing in return, I go to thank her, and she offers to do me another favor and oversee the League to protect us from other agencies that aren’t as concerned with our best interest.”

Steve smoothes his hand over her forearm. He seems incapable of not touching her for longer than a few moments. “She didn’t really think you wouldn’t see through that though, did she?”

“I think she figured it was worth a try. But she wasn’t surprised when we said no. That’s why she was ready with the threat to take you back.”

He watches his fingers move over her arm. “She had to know you wouldn’t handle that well either. She must have another backup plan. An ace up her sleeve that will force your hand.” He lifts his eyes to hers. “And I’m guessing by the look on your face, you know what it is.”

Diana is not accustomed to feeling nervous. But she can taste it now, like acid in the back of her throat. She swallows it away. _I am Diana of Themyscira,_ she thinks. She straightens her shoulders just a little.

“She says she can make you immortal.”

Steve’s hand freezes on her skin. He stares at her. She waits. He removes his hand from her arm and she feels the loss of contact immediately but she sits as still as a statue, her expression frozen, still waiting.

He leans back against the headboard with a dazed look. After what feels to be an eternity, he fixes his eyes back on her. “Can she?”

Diana shakes her head. “I don’t know. She was bound by the lasso when she said it, but that only means that she thinks it’s true. It doesn’t mean it actually is.”

Steve nods. Diana wants to soothe the worried lines of his forehead away with kisses, wants to massage the tension from his shoulders and whisper words of love and devotion in his ear the way he had done to her not long ago. She doesn’t move.

“How?” Steve asks.

“Her agency works with a man named Constantine. He’s an occult specialist.”

“Occult?” he repeats, his eyes flashing. “Like a magician?”

“Sort of. But it’s not his magic that we’d use. It’s his blood.”

Steve blinks at her.

“It has regenerative properties,” she explains. “If we transfused enough of it into your system it would take over and begin to reproduce itself. Your blood supply would become like his, and it would stop the aging process.”

Steve nods again, and then there is another long moment of silence. Finally, he straightens and shifts away from the headboard, the muscles in his stomach contracting. He squares his shoulders and looks her in the eye.

“No.”

Diana takes a deep breath and wills her expression to stay neutral. “No?”

He reaches for her at last, weaving his fingers through hers. “You’re too important to the world to be under Waller’s thumb. The League can’t be indebted to someone like her because of me.”

It’s noble and selfless and it’s exactly what she knew he would say. She takes another deep breath.

“There’s another way.”

Steve stares at her.

“Bruce knows Constantine,” she says, shifting on the mattress. “I’m not sure how. But Waller seems to think that Constantine would agree to the transfusion if Bruce asked.”

“That’s her trump card,” Steve says, baffled. “Why would she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have a choice.”

His eyes dart across the room in the direction of her lasso, which is still lying curled on the floor. “Oh.”

He is still holding her hand, and Diana runs her thumb along his skin. He looks at her. “There are a lot of unanswered questions,” she tells him. “We don’t know what is in Constantine’s blood. We don’t know why it stops aging, if it is compatible with human blood, if it even actually works. I don’t think Bruce trusts Constantine, and I don’t know him to vouch for him. It could be dangerous. Lethal, even.”

Steve nods and moves his gaze down to their joined hands.

“There’s no rush to decide,” she adds quietly. “You have time. But if you do decide that’s what you want, Bruce has agreed to call in the favor.”

He says nothing. Silence descends between them. Diana is tempted to fill it, but she chews her bottom lip instead and forces herself to sit wordlessly.

“What about you?” Steve asks at last.

“What about me?”

He won’t look at her. “Forever is a long time, Diana. You can’t possibly…”

He trails off and his unfinished sentence hangs in the air.

Diana stares at him, confused. She can’t possibly _what_? Want to spend forever with him? Hadn’t she made that clear? It wasn’t that long ago that she had whispered in his ear that she loved him. She hadn’t stopped there. There had been _I missed you_ and _I want you_ and _I’m yours_ and desperate pleas for him to never leave her again murmured against the heated flush of his skin, and she had meant every word. She does not say things she doesn’t mean.

He finally looks up at her and she sees the fear lurking in his eyes, dark and broken. _He didn’t believe me,_ she realizes.

“I already told you what I want—” he starts.

“I told you, too,” she cuts him off, pulling her hand from his grasp. “Did you not believe me?”

“Diana—”

“What you said before,” she says, rising to her feet. “When you were bound by the lasso—”

“I meant it,” he says, tilting forward. “I love you—”

“You just don’t believe that I love _you_ ,” she interrupts. “You are still afraid that I will wake up someday and want someone else. That you’re not good enough.”

His lips form a thin, straight line. “I understand you’re a goddess, Diana,” he says evenly. “I understand that you don’t have a lot of experience with fear. But I’m human, and I do, and it doesn’t just go away.”

“But I _told_ you—”

“Do you think you’re the first to make me promises?” he interjects. “You told me once that a promise is unbreakable, but that isn’t true, Diana. It isn’t true. You love me today, but that doesn’t mean that you will in a thousand years.”

She stares at him, taken aback. “You have no faith in me.”

“It’s not about you.” He puts a hand on his chest, his fingers splayed over his collarbone. “I am a spy. You know what spies are. You might not have understood before, but you do now. Do you know how many people I’ve lied to? How many promises I’ve broken? How many terrible things that I’ve done?”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes you do,” he insists. “You cared that Charlie fought with no honor. That Sammy was a liar and Chief was a smuggler. I am all of those things, Diana, and worse. I’m the guy who refused to help you cross No Man’s Land.”

“You’re also the same man who changed his mind and followed me across it anyway,” she points out. “And as for Charlie and the boys, you’re right. I did judge them. But that was a hundred years ago. You had to have noticed that I’m not the same person that I was. For all you know, I’ve spent the past century—”

“Saving the world,” he interrupts. “That’s what you’ve been doing. Because even if you’ve changed that’s still what you do. It’s who you are. You’ve been in this world nearly three times as long as I have and I promise you, Diana, I _promise_ you that you haven’t even done a _fraction_ of what I’ve done. You’re not capable.”

“I’m not perfect,” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head, already holding his hand up to stop her.

“Don’t do that,” he tells her. “Don’t put yourself on my level. You don’t belong there.”

“Neither do you!” she says, frustration pulsing in her blood. “You blew yourself up to save millions of people, Steve. If that’s not redemption I don’t know what is.”

“That doesn’t make me good enough for an eternity with you!” he says, raising his voice. “How can you not see that? You are a _goddess_ , Diana. You’re Wonder Woman. You can’t tie yourself to someone like me for the rest of forever. I won’t let you.”   

“You don’t get to _let_ me do anything,” she snaps at him. “You don’t get to make choices for me, Steve. You don’t get to decide whether or not you are worthy of my love. I get to decide that. That is _my_ choice.”

“Well you’re making the wrong one.”

“Then what are we doing?” she demands, throwing her hands out. “If you are that convinced that it won’t last then why even bother starting again? You could have agreed you needed time. You could have said you wouldn’t have chosen this. For Zeus’ sake, Steve, you could have even pretended like Veld was just another notch in your belt. But you didn’t. You _fought_ for me. You told me you loved me and you took me to bed—”

He flinches at the implication. She stops talking, because that’s not what she meant. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and her eyes fixate on the long, white scar on his shoulder, the one that she was kissing only hours ago. She wonders how many scars they’re going to give each other before the night is through.

“I told you,” he says quietly, opening his eyes to look at her. “I’m selfish. Being with you makes me feel whole. And I _want_ to be whole. I _want_ to be with you. But I’m not an idiot, Diana. I know what I am. Someone like you can’t love someone like me for very long.”

She’s so angry that she can’t even look at him anymore. She turns away from him and paces to the other side of the room, her fingers pressing into her temples. She can speak hundreds of languages but she can’t seem to think of a single combination of words in any of them that will break through his thick, ridiculous skull.

Steve is not an insecure man. If anything he’s cocky and brash, the kind of man who can be surrounded by a horde of Amazonian warriors and still look someone like her mother in the eye and say _I can’t tell you that_. This isn’t about his confidence, or his self-worth. It is something else, something about _them_ and not him, but she can’t put her finger on it, she can’t…

It hits her suddenly, like one of her father’s thunderbolts, and she stops dead in her tracks.

Steve has always looked at her with a sort of stunned admiration. Diana knows that she’s beautiful, and she knows he thinks so. But the moments she has felt his admiration most intensely are not the moments when he looks at her with desire. It’s the moments when she has done or said something _good_. The way his eyes followed her through the crowds in Veld as she shook their hands and accepted their gratitude for saving them. The way he smiled at her when she smiled at Charlie and said _Who will sing for us?_ The awe in his voice when he said _You did this_ and the certainty in his voice when he told her _You can save the world._

She felt it today, too. When he knelt before her this morning and said _You left Paradise Island to save the world, Diana. That’s who you are._ The way he gazed at her when she put her hand on the arm of the waitress-in-training at the sushi restaurant and said, _You’re doing wonderfully_. She can even hear it when she plays back everything he’s said in the past few minutes. _Because even if you’ve changed that’s still what you do. It’s who you are._

It’s been a hundred years, but a blindingly bright memory is suddenly playing out before her eyes. She is walking next to him on the way to the front, complaining that they are working with a murderer, a liar, and a smuggler. He tells her the same thing he told her just now—that he is all of those things as well. He says it offhandedly, and he does not look at her the way people do when they want you to contradict them. She tries to explain, but he brushes her off and lists his sins. _Still coming?_ he asks.

Even then, naive as she was, she remembers thinking, _This is a good man who has been forced to do terrible things._

The memory brings a cascade of others. The brief flash of shame and hurt on his face when she yelled at him in the trenches and said _What is the matter with you?_ The way he flinched when she pushed him away from her on the outskirts of a destroyed Veld and told him _You did this._ The sound of his voice breaking when he took her face in his hands at the top of the watchtower and said _But maybe I am_ after she told him she wasn’t to blame.

_Someone like you can’t love someone like me for very long._

What Steve loves most about her is her goodness. And if he believes that _his_ goodness is not enough for her, it is because that is exactly what she communicated to him again and again.

This entire day, she has agonized over whether he can love her now that she is more cynical than hopeful. She never stopped to consider that he might have always wondered the same thing about her.

She bows her head against the guilt of it. She wants to go to him, wants to kneel before him and explain that she didn’t understand before how heavy the burden of the world is but she does now. There may be things in his past that he is ashamed of, but they do not define him. He is good, and noble, and brave, and it would be the greatest privilege of her life to love and be loved by him for the rest of forever. But she can hear his words as clear as a bell _Do you think you’re the first to make me promises?_ and she is afraid that her words will not be enough.

Another thunderbolt strikes, and she realizes that maybe she doesn’t need to say anything at all.

Diana searches the floor until she finds her pants. She bends over, fumbling with the fabric until she finds what she’s looking for, and then she straightens and moves back toward the bed. Steve watches her warily, his legs bent over the side of the mattress and the sheet pooled around his waist. She stops before him, and holds out his father’s watch.

Steve stares at it, his mouth slack. Eventually, he reaches out and takes it from her. He smoothes his thumb across the glass face the way she has done so many times before.

“You kept it,” he says in wonder.

“Of course I did,” she says softly. “You gave it to me. It was all I had left of you.”

He lifts his gaze to her face and she sees it in his eyes, the briefest flash of hope, and she seizes her chance.

“I carried you with me for a century,” she tells him. “You left me, Steve. You died. And I kept loving you anyway. If death couldn’t stop me from loving you, what makes you think anything else could?”

He ducks his head down to look at the watch again, but she knows it’s only because he feels too exposed holding her gaze.

“Someday, you will tell me about all the terrible things you’ve done,” she continues. “You will tell me when you did them, and who you did them to, and why. And then I will keep loving you. Because that’s what love _is_ , Steve. It’s not about what you deserve. You’re the one who taught me that.”

He makes no response. The silence stretches between them. His shoulders are rounded, his head bowed as if he is praying. If ever there’s been a moment when Diana has felt like a goddess, it is this one—with this man she loves so deeply bent before her, desperate for redemption and certain that he does not deserve it.  

Diana closes the remaining distance between them. She reaches for him, her hands on either side of his face, her thighs pressed against the mattress between his legs. She lifts his head gently to look at her. She strokes his cheek the way she did in Veld, the way she did when Barry brought him back to her, and he leans into her touch.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you for all the good things you’ve done and I love you for all the bad things, too, because they made you who you are. They brought you to me. And I won’t let you go again.”

She has never seen him look so ragged and exposed. She sweeps his hair back from his face and he closes his eyes. He leans forward and rests his forehead against her sternum. His head lifts and falls with her chest as she breathes. Diana curves downward, her face in his hair, and holds him against her. He curls his hands around her waist, his thumbs brushing circles over the jutting of her hip bones. He takes a deep breath and she feels him exhale her name, warm on her skin even through the fabric of the shirt.

He raises his face toward hers. She leans back so she can meet his eyes. She can see him searching for words, but all he can do is swallow and knit his eyebrows together. She feels the pressure of his fingers on her hips, hanging on like she’s all that is keeping him upright.

She digs her fingers into his shoulders. She lifts a knee onto the mattress, the inside of her thigh sliding across his, and then she lifts the other so that she is straddling him. She rises above him and then settles down onto his lap. His hands tighten on her waist. He makes no move to close the distance between their mouths, and neither does she.   
They stay like that for a long moment, breathing each other in. She’s waiting for him, and he knows it.  

“Say it again,” he finally whispers.

“I love you,” she says immediately.

He glides his hands down from her waist and onto the bare skin of her thighs. If she’d forgotten that she is wearing only his shirt, she remembers now.

“Diana,” he murmurs, and it sounds like a prayer.

“I love you, Steve,” she says again. She runs her fingers through his hair, and then frames his face and looks him in the eye. “I will always love you.”

He leans forward and kisses her, slow and deep and with a reverence that takes her breath away.

By the time his fingers find the buttons of her shirt she feels dizzy and adored and desperate to make sure he understands. She says it again _I love you_ and again _I love you_ and she keeps saying it, over and over and over until her world goes white hot and she is incapable of saying anything at all.   


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :) Thanks again for all your lovely comments. Seriously. So kind.
> 
> Okay. So. Remember a few chapters ago when y’all were like “OMG can’t wait for Diana and Steve to finally talk about their feelings”? 
> 
> Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. Because now I am like, “Okay WonderTrev, time to move the plot along. Get out of bed, I got a lot planned for y’all.” And Diana and Steve are like, “LOLZ nope. We’re going to stay in bed and talk to each other some more. Also, we can’t seem to keep our hands to ourselves and our thoughts are super inappropriate. Deal with it.” And I am like *sigh* *eyeroll* FINE. 
> 
> So I guess what I’m saying is that if Diana and Steve never get out of bed again it’s all your fault.
> 
> At least Bruce is cooperating. Poor Bruce.

Bruce is accustomed to being in dark alleys in the middle of the night. If anything he feels at home in them, far more comfortable than he feels anywhere else. But tonight, he feels restless.

Part of his uneasiness is because of Diana. He doesn’t like that her decision to end things hurt him as much as it did. He only spent a handful of nights with her, and there was no real future possible for them. It was exactly what he always thought he wanted: Beautiful woman, breathless nights, no questions asked or expectations disclosed because she was holding back just as much of herself as he was. He should feel glad about the end because it means he can move on to someone else before things get too complicated. Instead, he finds himself repulsed by the idea of anyone in his bed except her.

Yes, some of his uneasiness is definitely about Diana. But the rest of it, he suspects, has to do with the person he’s waiting to meet with.

Diana did not ask him to call Constantine. Bruce offered as soon as they got in the Batmobile after leaving the A.R.G.U.S. bunker, but she had asked him to wait. _I have to talk to Steve. There’s no use cashing in a favor from a con man if you don’t need to._

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to honor her wishes. He does. But what he wants most is to make her happy, and he already knows—even if she doesn’t—that there is only a snowball’s chance in hell that Trevor isn’t in love with her. It’s written all over the spy’s face every time he looks at her. Diana is cautious and guarded and she’s going to try to take things slow. But Bruce is not a fool. Those two won’t stay apart for long, and once they’re together it’s going to be permanent until death comes again for the captain.

Bruce would have been with Diana if she wanted him. But she wants Trevor—and if Trevor is who she wants, then Bruce is going to make damn sure she can keep him forever.

Hence the dark alley and the impending meeting with a con man.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear,_ Bruce thinks when Constantine materializes before him.

As always, Constantine looks rumpled and tired. His long trench coat blows behind him, and there is a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He spots Bruce, and his mouth stretches into a caustic grin.

“Hey Batty.”

“Don’t start with me.”

Constantine tugs on his long black tie. “Put on a fresh one just for you.”

“Lucky me.”

Constantine snorts. He takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Gotta tell you, mate, I was surprised to get your call. You’re a busy bloke these days, running around with your super friends.” He grins and leans forward, lowering his voice. “What’s it gonna take to get you to introduce me to the leggy brunette with the whip?”

“You’re not her type.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of women say that. They usually end up in my bed anyway.”

Constantine winks.

Bruce swallows his angry retort. “I didn’t call you here to talk about the League.”

“Right,” Constantine says, straightening. “What can I do you for?”

“I just spoke with Amanda Waller. According to her, a transfusion of your blood would permanently stop someone from aging. I’d like to know if that’s true.”

Constantine looks surprised. “Waller, huh? Didn’t peg you as the type to muck about with her.”

“I don’t. She didn’t share the information willingly.”

He smirks. “You feeling your age, then? Looking to hide some gray hairs?”

“It’s not for me.”

Curiosity flashes in his eyes. “Who’s it for?”

“A friend.”

The con man exhales a long trail of smoke and then surveys Bruce with interest through the haze. “Must be a hell of a friend to bring you out here to meet with me.”

Bruce thinks of Diana’s smile, and then pushes the thought away impatiently. “Does your blood stop aging or not?”

Constantine shakes his head. “Slows it. Doesn’t stop it.”

_Close enough for now,_ Bruce thinks. He lifts his chin. “You interested in wiping the slate clean?”

Constantine laughs, a low and raspy sound that echoes through the alley. “You mean I do you a favor, and you forget all that pent-up, roiling animosity you’re trying to contain?”

“I still won’t like you,” Bruce clarifies. “You just won’t owe me anymore.”

Constantine snorts. “Love to help, mate. Just one small problem. I didn’t tell our friend Waller the whole truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, my blood _is_ special. Slows _my_ aging down quite a bit.” He grins. “Nice little gift from a demon I know. Fascinating story, if you’ve got the time.”

“I don’t.”

“No one ever does,” Constantine says on a sigh. He flicks his cigarette into a nearby puddle. “My blood is special because it’s demonically tainted. It would kill anyone besides me who came into contact with a large enough bit of it. Through a transfusion, for example.”

Bruce is not surprised that Constantine lied, but he can still feel the disappointment sharp in his chest. “Why lie?”

Constantine grins. “Well she’s hardly going to kill a man who could potentially make her ageless, now is she?”

Bruce turns away from Constantine and curses under his breath. He can already imagine the look on Diana’s face, the heartbreak that will gleam in her eyes when she realizes that she can’t keep Trevor forever after all.

“There is something I could do,” Constantine offers.

_Of course there is_ , Bruce thinks. He turns around.

Constantine has another lit cigarette in his mouth already. He grins around it. “Don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a rather talented sorcerer.”

“So?”

“So I happen to know of a spell for decelerated aging. Permanent, one-time deal. I perform the spell, your friend’s aging process gets slower and slower until it ceases all together.”

Bruce eyes the man before him warily. “What’s the catch?”

Constantine puffs his cigarette. “I don’t know the spell off the top of my head. It’s in a book.”

“And where’s the book?”

Constantine grins. “A.R.G.U.S. headquarters in Washington D.C.”

Bruce sighs.

“Specifically, in a place called the Black Room,” Constantine continues. “I figure since you’re such good friends with Waller, you could probably get me in there. You get me in there, I’ll get you the book and then perform your spell free of charge.”

“After you steal whatever else you want while you’re in the room,” Bruce says. “Not happening.”

Constantine shrugs. “It’s your friend, mate. You either get me in there to get the book, or your friend keeps going gray.”

Bruce considers his options. “I can get you the book,” he decides. “But I can’t get you in the room.”

“No deal. I want in the room.”

“I can get you the book,” Bruce repeats. “And you can keep it after. I’m sure it’s filled with all kinds of other spells you would find useful in your line of work.”

Constantine smirks. “You say _line of work_ like it’s different than yours.”

“We don’t do the same thing.”

“You fight bad guys, I fight bad guys,” Constantine says with a shrug. “Methods are a bit different. I don’t have a leggy brunette and a bunch of sidekicks. But other than that, mate, we’re two peas in a pod.”

Bruce glowers at him.

Constantine flicks some ash off the end of his cigarette. “You know, every time I call her _leggy_ your jaw does this angry clenching thing,” he says. He juts his head forward and clenches his jaw in exaggerated fury. “Something like that. Makes me wonder if you’re carrying a torch for her.”

“Do you want the book or not?” Bruce growls.

Constantine tugs on his tie and thinks it over. Bruce waits.

“Fine,” Constantine says. “But if you won’t get me in the room, you’ll owe me a favor instead.” He smirks. “Never know when I might need a hand from the Batman.”

Bruce knows exactly what Diana would say if she were here. _Don’t make this deal, Bruce. You can’t trust him._ And she would be right. He’s not an idiot. Constantine works with Waller and A.R.G.U.S. on a regular basis. If he wanted in that room, he’d have already gotten in there. What he really wants is the book and the favor—acting as though he’s sacrificed something is just part of the con.

“Fine,” Bruce says anyway. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got it.”

Constantine grins and dips his chin. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Batty.” And then he disappears.

Bruce lingers in the dark alleyway, weighing his options and making a mental list of what he needs to do. He needs to iron out his strategy for dealing with Waller, an idea that has slowly been taking shape ever since he realized just how badly she wants to oversee the League. He needs a way to get into the D.C. headquarters of A.R.G.U.S. to scope it out. And he needs to figure out how to get his hands on that book without anyone noticing it’s missing.  

He knows what he has to do first. He just really doesn’t want to.

He makes the call anyway. It rings three times, and then a voice on the other end of the line purrs, _Hello_?

“I have a job for you,” he says.

* * *

Steve doesn’t remember much about boot camp. He remembers waking up early, and running for miles through the rain and mud, and shivering in the cold as he learned to take his weapon apart and put it back together with frozen fingers. What he remembers most clearly is thinking that there was no way that he would ever be that tired again.

He hadn’t met Diana yet, obviously.

To be fair, it’s not her fault. She doesn’t expect more from him than what he wants to give. But that, really, is the problem. He wants to give her everything.

He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t often thought about the clinical tone of her voice as they left Themyscira on that boat. _Men are unnecessary._ It would also be a lie to say that he had not made it his sole purpose—both in Veld and earlier tonight—to make himself completely, totally, one hundred percent necessary.

In Veld, he wanted to make her first experience with a man a good one. Earlier tonight, he had wanted to show her that even though she may have had dozens of other lovers over the course of a century, none of them could love her as he could. In Veld she had told him, her voice a soft husk of satisfaction, _Perhaps Clio’s treatises are not totally accurate_. Earlier tonight, he had mentioned (with more than a little self-deprecation) their role reversal regarding sexual experience. She had smiled and whispered against his lips _Nobody felt like you do_.

He is ridiculously, chest-puffed-out, preening like a peacock proud of both statements.    

But after their fight, things had changed. It was no longer about pride. It was about vulnerability and gratitude and devotion, and a deep-seated, insatiable need to show her what she means to him. He babbles when bound by her lasso, but he is not a man of words. Not when it comes to feelings, at least. He has no money to buy her gifts. The possibility of eternity is now firmly on the table, but technically his time is still limited because they don’t know for sure that the process will even work.

In the end, he has nothing to offer her except his body and his heart. So he gives them both to her willingly and gladly.

Now she is draped across his chest, her head nestled beneath his chin, and he can’t stop moving his hands over the smooth expanse of her bare back. He is physically exhausted. But his brain is wide awake, and he has no intention of going to sleep.

Her chest is rising and falling slowly against his though, and she hasn’t moved in a while. He presses his lips against the crown of her head.

“You asleep?”

Diana stirs against him, her fingers dancing along his ribs. “No.” She lifts her head. “You should be though.”

“Not tired,” he says resolutely. He twirls a strand of her dark hair around his index finger.

She sets her hand on his sternum and then rests her chin on the back of it. “You sure?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling.

She smiles back at him, more of a smirk than anything else. “You don’t have to prove to me that you can keep up.”

“I think I already did that,” he says.

Her eyes light up at his words, and he makes a mental note of it. _Diana likes suggestive banter._

“You did,” she agrees. “I’ve caught my breath now, though, so maybe...”

She trails off pointedly, one eyebrow arched, and Steve throws his head back against the pillow and groans, “My god, woman, you will be the death of me.”

She laughs, and the warmth of it makes all the exhaustion seep right out of his body.

“But what a way to go,” he says, looking down at her again.

She smiles. “Best way I can think of.”

He pushes her hair back from her face. She watches him, and he lets her. He can see her smile fading, her expression turning serious.

“What is it?” he asks.

She chews her lip. “What you said earlier. About me not being familiar with fear because I am a goddess. That’s not true.”

He brushes his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. “What are you afraid of?”

She doesn’t answer right away. He waits. It’s one of those moments when he feels as though he’s experiencing double vision. Diana of 1918 would not have told him that she had fears. Not because she didn’t have them. He’s sure she did. She was just too mission-driven to be bothered to consider them. There was a job to be done, a war to end, and if contemplating her fears would not help her fulfill her mission then there was no point in doing it.

But the Diana draped over him now is different. He knows that the past century has been filled with plenty of violence. But there was also peace. She knows now what people do when there is no war to fight. He remembers thinking earlier that he hoped she had never been lonely. But he knows, even though she hasn’t said it, that she was. She had lovers, and she had friends, but he suspects she spent a significant portion of the past one hundred years keeping herself company.

That’s a lot of time to contemplate fear.

Diana rises from off of his chest and then settles on her stomach next to him, propped up on her elbows. He watches her stare down at her hands, her fingers playing with the edge of the pillow case.  

“Before I left Themyscira, my mother told me that there was much I did not know,” she says. “I’ve often wondered what she meant. For a long time I thought it was that I did not know that Zeus was my father, that Ares was my brother, and that I was born to be the god-killer.”

“That’s a pretty big thing not to tell your daughter,” Steve acknowledges.

She casts a glance at him, one corner of her mouth turned up ever so slightly in a smile, and his heart thumps in his chest. He likes her smile, even when it’s a small one.

“I don’t think she had any idea what society would be like,” Diana continues. “So I don’t think she meant that I didn’t know how hard it would be to assimilate.”

He wonders for the hundredth time how she learned to fit in after the war was finished. He suspects that Etta had a lot to do with it. He files the question away to ask later.

“But the more time I spend in this world, the more I think that it wasn’t just about Ares and Zeus,” she says. “I think it was about my conviction. My faith in mankind, and my faith in my own abilities. I think she knew that someday I would realize that it is impossible for me to save the world. And that since I am immortal, I would have to live with that failure for eternity.”

“Hang on,” Steve says, rolling toward her. “You’ve saved the world a hundred times in the past century.”

“I’ve protected it,” she corrects. “But I have not saved it. If I had saved it, there would be no war. There would be no need for Wonder Woman and the Justice League.”

Steve thinks of all that he knows about mankind, and all the terrible things that Diana has probably seen since 1918. “The world is always going to need you,” he says.

“And I will always fight for those who cannot fight for themselves,” she says. “But I will never succeed in the mission that I left my home to complete. Ares is gone, but his influence lives on. Everything is different, but nothing has changed. They slaughter each other in the streets for money and power. They send children to their deaths over petty squabbles. One hundred years have gone by, and they have learned nothing. They are bent on self-destruction.”

She finally looks at him. “I cannot save them, Steve. Not from themselves.”

It’s a stunning indictment of humanity, and though Steve agrees with her assessment, it is still a shock to hear her say it. _You had to have noticed that I’m not the same person that I was_ , she’d said. And if he hadn’t believed her before, he does now.

She holds his gaze, and he realizes that he is being watched very carefully. He remembers what prompted this conversation to begin with, and suddenly everything makes sense.

He wants to reach for her, but he doesn’t. “What are you afraid of, Diana?”

She lowers her eyes. “I’ve lived a long time, Steve. I’m tired.”

That’s not an answer. “What are you afraid of, Diana?” he repeats.

She lifts her gaze. “Mankind is obsessed with time. They think more is always better. And sometimes, it is. Sometimes it is a gift. But sometimes it’s not. To watch the people around you grow old and die while you’re frozen, stuck in the same body forever as everything around you goes on and on…”

She shakes her head and looks back down at her hands. Her dark hair falls forward, a curtain that blocks her face from his. “It is isolating and lonely,” she continues quietly. “And it builds with every loss, layer after layer, until you wake up in the morning and feel it sitting on your chest like a stone.”

“Diana,” he breathes, a catch in his throat. He wants to comfort her, wants to soothe the pain out of her voice, but he doesn’t know how. He pushes her hair back over her shoulder. She turns her face toward his.

“I can handle failing to complete my mission,” she whispers. “But I don’t think I can handle losing you again.”

“Come here,” he says, reaching out his hands for her, and she comes, nestling into his side, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly. Neither of them say anything for a long time.

She is the first to move. She rolls onto her side, bending her arm and resting her temple against the heel of her hand. Steve mimics her position, and they watch each other in silence. He wonders how long he can go without touching her. Not very long, he suspects. He’s pleased when she’s the one who reaches for him.

She lifts her free hand and trails the tips of her fingers along the line of his jaw. “You are not the only one of us who is selfish,” she tells him in a barely audible voice. “When Waller told me that she could make you immortal I wanted it so badly that I could barely breathe. Having anyone to spend eternity with would be a comfort, but spending it with you…”

She smiles and curls her hand to cup his face. “It would feel like finally coming home.”

There had been a moment not too long ago, when he had pushed inside of her and felt her sigh against his collarbone, that he realized he had never loved anything or anyone the way he loved her. He hadn’t known he was even _capable_ of such love. It felt exactly like coming home.

He didn’t think he could love her more than he had then. But now this moment has arrived, and he loves her even more, and he smiles because she is always, even unintentionally, proving him wrong.

She drops her hand from his face but he catches it and dips his head forward so that he can kiss the inside of her wrist and feel the thrumming of her pulse against his lips. He weaves his fingers with hers and scoots a little closer to her, curling his wrist to hold their hands against his chest.

“So what are we waiting for?”

“Why would we rush?” she counters.

“Well _you’re_ not getting any older,” he says. “But I am. What if I start to get gray hair?”

She glances up at his hair. “I think it would make you look very distinguished.”

“And wrinkles?”

She smiles. “Signs of a life well-lived.”

“And if my old creaky bones can’t hold me up anymore?”

“Then I’ll carry you wherever you want to go,” she whispers, leaning forward, and when her mouth meets his he thinks for the millionth time _I could kiss this woman forever and never get tired of it._

When she pulls away, she hums a small noise of appreciation in the back of her throat. If he wasn’t so fixated on finishing this conversation, he’d get to work seeing what other sounds he could pull from her.

“I’m serious,” he says instead. “I don’t want to waste time.”

“Are we wasting it now?” she asks.

He gazes at her, at the outline of her naked body beneath the sheet, the graceful curve of her shoulders, the way her dark hair stands out against her skin.

“No,” he says. “But what if something happens? Something we can’t control? We got a second chance, but what if it gets taken from us?”

“Then being ageless wouldn’t matter anyway,” she points out. “Aging or not, you are still human. That plane explosion would have taken an ageless you just as quickly as it took this you.”

The realization that she’s right makes his stomach drop. Even if the transfusion works and his body stops aging, they could still repeat 1918. He could die, and she could be left screaming, and even if it’s twenty years from now or thirty or fifty it will never have been enough time.

It must be written across his face because she whispers “Oh, Steve,” and she leans forward and presses her forehead against his. “Me too,” she whispers. She kisses the tip of his nose, his cheeks, and he reaches for her, curling his arm around her waist and capturing her lips. Even when she pulls away she stays close, and he’s glad.  

“You can’t make a permanent decision to fix a temporary feeling,” she tells him gently. “You can’t choose immortality because you are afraid.”

“Isn’t everyone afraid to die?” he asks.

“Maybe,” she says. “But I don’t think death is the only thing you’re afraid of right now.”

He brushes her hair back. “What else is there?”

She smiles. “You’re a spy, Steve. You’re more adept at adjusting to change than the average person. But traveling one hundred years into the future isn’t just a change. Everything you knew is different now. And everyone you knew is gone.”

“Except you.”

She nods. “Except me. That’s why our situations are so alike. I didn’t travel through time. You are not a god with a divine mission. But I’m your anchor now the same way you were mine then.”

He tries to understand, he really does, but all he can do is shake his head and tell her he doesn’t. “I don’t follow.”

She furrows her eyebrows in thought. “Themyscira and Europe were were two different worlds,” she explains. “And you brought me from one to the other. You walked the beaches of my home. You met my mother and my aunt and my sisters. So when I looked at you, when I talked to you, I could see and hear them even though they were gone. Having you by my side was like being anchored to what was familiar. It made it easier to learn the world because I could always come back to what I knew, and know that you knew it too.”

“And the same is true for me now,” he says, finally understanding. “You’ve seen where I come from the same way I saw where you did. You were with me in 1918. You knew Etta and the boys, and you fought in the war.”

“Yes.”

“So what am I afraid of?”

“Being set adrift. If you lose me, you lose the only thing that ties you back to what you know.”

“But I can’t lose you the way you lost me,” he points out. “You’re indestructible.”

“Mostly,” she agrees. “But it’s not about me dying. There are other ways to lose someone. And you’ve already told me that you fear them.”

He thinks of the lasso on his wrists, of her whispered question _Are you afraid?_ and his frantic confession: _In a week or a month or a year you’re going to wake up and want something else with someone else and I’m going to have to figure out how to live in this world without you._

“I don’t doubt that you want to be with me,” she says to him quietly. “But I think part of the reason you’re suddenly in such a rush to be with me forever is because then we would be permanent. And if you and I were permanent, it wouldn’t matter how much the world has changed. You’d always have something to hang on to.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. But now that he does, he can see that she’s right. The moment she’d left him this afternoon, he’d been forced to deal with his new reality alone. He had missed her immediately and terribly—a bone-deep kind of ache that he’s never felt before for another person. When he thought she was with Bruce, and that he would have to find his way through the world without her, the fear had been suffocating.

Barry may be the one who ran them through time, but Steve has felt out of breath since the moment he first arrived in the Batcave. The only time he feels like he’s breathing properly is when he’s with her. He loves her, is _in_ love with her, and he wants to be with her. But it’s more than that. She’s his anchor in the middle of a sea of unknowns. And she’s right when she says that making their connection permanent would go a long way toward making him feel better about being in a world that he isn’t even close to understanding.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I see your point.”

“I don’t want you to make this decision because you want some type of assurance that I’m yours,” she says. “I want you to trust me when I say that I’m not going anywhere.”

“I do,” he insists.

“You don’t,” she argues gently. “Not completely. But that isn’t your fault. How could you trust me? I may have loved you for a hundred years, Steve, but you’ve only known me for a week.”

“I trust you with my life,” he says fiercely.

She presses her palm over his chest. “That is not the same thing as trusting me with your heart.”

A few hours ago, her words would have sent him into a tailspin of anxiety. Now, he only knows that she’s right. In the afterglow of everything they’d just shared, it is easy to look at her and tell her that he trusts her. It might not be as easy for him tomorrow, or the day after that.

He wonders if he could say the same thing to her. His father’s watch that she kept for a century is on the bedside table next to them. He can still feel the weight of her on top of him, surrounding him, her voice soft but strong and sure. _I love you. I will always love you._ She has been unequivocal in her declarations of love. He has tried to be the same. He wonders if she believes him.

He puts his hand over hers. “Do you think I love you less than you love me?” he asks. “Because of the time difference?”

“No,” she says decisively.

“Are you sure?”

She lifts her chin. “How much do you know about Greek mythology?”

He doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything, but he’s not one to argue with a Greek goddess about the relevance of Greek mythology. He shrugs. “Not much.”

“I happen to know quite a bit,” she says.

He grins. “You mean because you work at the Louvre in antiquities?”

She tries and fails to stifle a smile. “Because it’s my family history.”

“Oh, right, right,” he says. “Go on.”

“Greek mythology is littered with great love stories,” she tells him. “Love at first sight, love that transcended time and distance and a multitude of conflicts, love that outlasted death. Not all of them ended happily, but a tragic ending doesn’t mean that it wasn’t real.”

He reaches out and trails his fingers along her collarbone. “Someday I’d like for you to tell me all the stories,” he says. “But I’m a little lost about what they have to do with us.”

She covers his hand with her own and then presses it over her heart. “I come from a race of gods and demigods who loved deeply and passionately regardless of the constraints of time. I don’t doubt that you love me after such a short time because I know that great love defies logic. Maybe we shouldn’t have fallen for each other as hard and as fast as we did. But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.”

“So why’s it matter how long we’ve known each other?”

She finally breaks eye contact. She lowers their hands away from her chest. “It doesn’t, I suppose.”

He leans toward her. “Diana.”

She looks up. He raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question. She chews her bottom lip, and he can practically see the wheels of her mind turning, trying to decide how to explain what she’s thinking.

“Do you remember when we left Themyscira on the boat?” she finally asks him.

“Vividly,” he says, barely resisting the urge to ask her whether she’s ever considered co-writing a treatise about all the ways Clio was wrong.

“Do you remember trying to explain to me what marriage was?”

His heart flips in his chest. “Yeah.”

She smoothes her hand absently across the sheet between them. “You did not seem particularly enthused by the idea.”

“Well, to be fair, I was only half in love with you at that point.”

She smiles and rolls her eyes a little, just like he knew she would.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” he asks, and even though the humor comes through in his tone he hears the breathlessness of it too.

“No,” she laughs. “I’m just trying to get you to understand why I…”

She sighs, and finally looks at him.

“If you do this,” she says quietly, almost sternly, “you’d be doing it for me. To be with me because I am immortal.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“That’s so much more serious than a marriage vow, Steve. It’s not growing old together until death do we part. It’s forever. And if you’re going to make that commitment, I want you to be sure. I know you love me. But I want you to trust me, too, and you can’t completely trust someone you don’t completely know.”

“That goes both ways,” he tells her.

She nods. “I know.” She squeezes his hand. “There’s just so much we don’t know about each other.”

“So why don’t we slow down?” he asks. “Not _too_ much,” he clarifies, sliding a hand possessively across the sheet that’s draped over her hip. Heat sparks in her eyes and she bites her lip around a suggestive little smile. He briefly considers leaning forward and biting it too, but he resists.

“But a little slower,” he continues. “We can put the immortality thing on hold for now and just kind of...I don’t know, what do they call it in the twenty-first century when two people get to know each other? Is it courting?”

“Dating,” she says. She’s smiling at him the way she does when he says something old-fashioned. “We would go on dates, so we would be dating.”

“Dating,” he repeats. It sounds weird to him, but so does most of what people do and say in the twenty-first century. “How’s it work?”

“We spend time together,” she says, shrugging a little. “A date is just something we do together. We go out to dinner or to the movies. Anything, really.”

“And we do it alone?”

“Well, there is double dating. For instance, we could go out with Clark and Lois, since they are also together. But mostly, yes, it would be just you and me. No chaperones.” She gives him an arch look. “If you can manage to behave like a gentleman in public.”

“I make no promises,” he says solemnly.

She smiles, and it’s clear to him that she won’t mind if he isn’t. He runs a hand down the sheet covering the outside of her thigh. “Was going shopping our first date?” he asks her. “And lunch at the place with the fish and the chopsticks?”

“If you want it to be.”

He considers it. “No,” he decides. “It should be special, right? The first date?”

“They can be. But not always.”

Steve finds himself suddenly wondering how many first dates she’s been on.

“Do you uh…” he starts. _Past tense_ , he reminds himself. “Did you date a lot?”

“Occasionally.”

He imagines that she’s smirking, but he can’t bring himself to look at her face. He focuses on smoothing his hand across the curve of her hip. If they’re going to spend forever together, he’s going to need to plan a hell of a first date—and he’d like to know what he’s up against. He wants to ask her for details, but he doesn’t want to pry. A long moment of silence stretches between them.

She taps his chin with her index finger. “Hey.”

He finally looks at her. She isn’t smirking. “I will tell you anything you want to know about my dating history,” she says. “Or nothing at all, if you prefer.”

Steve may not know much about Greek mythology, but he has heard the story of Pandora’s box. He doesn’t want to open his own version of it. But he does want to know who she’s been with. He’s curious if she has a type, and if she ever fell in love, and whether her heart has ever been broken. He wonders how long her relationships lasted, and why they ended, and whether she ever wished for any of her other lovers to be immortal.

But when he looks at her and sees the soft smile on her lips, and the way she is patiently waiting for him to decide how much he wants to know, he realizes he doesn’t care as much as he thought. It doesn’t matter who she loved in the past. Even if some of her first dates with others would put whatever he eventually plans to shame, she’s not with those people now. _I’m yours_ , she’d told him earlier. And he believes her.

But he is curious about her most recent relationship, and how someone as kind as her fell into bed with someone who seems so angry and gruff.

“Were you dating Bruce?” he finally asks.

She does not seem surprised by his question. “Not officially.”

“Officially?” he repeats, confused.

“There are different kinds of dating,” she explains. “Casual dating is exactly what it sounds like—casual. Usually that is what people do until they decide to be official, which is just another way to say that they are exclusively and publicly together.”

“So you guys weren’t official, you were casual.”

“We were undefined,” she says. “I don’t think I’d call it casual. But it wasn’t official either.”

“Why weren’t you official?” he asks. He’s asking a lot of questions, he knows, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“He lives in Gotham, and I live in Paris,” she answers. “Neither of us was going to move so it would have been difficult to make it work. And being seen in public with him in that way was an intrusion I was not ready for.”

Steve frowns. “Wait, so people know he’s Batman?”

“No. Bruce Wayne is famous in his own right.”

“For being rich?”

“Yes. Amongst other things.”

He wonders what other things Bruce is famous for but doesn’t ask. “So you guys were just…”

He has no idea how to finish that sentence.

“I care about Bruce,” Diana says, bailing him out. “And he cares about me. But our romantic relationship was mostly physical. We hadn’t yet talked about our feelings, or becoming official.”

“Would you have? If I hadn’t come back?”

“Does it matter? You did. And I’m here.”

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. On the one hand, it’s nice to hear that she isn’t in love with Bruce, and that she isn’t questioning her choice. On the other hand, the phrase _mostly physical_ is probably the worst thing he’s ever heard. He tries to keep his face blank and fails.

Diana slides across the space between them and presses her body into the side of his, draping one arm across his abdomen and propping herself up with the other. He looks at her.  

“You asked,” she reminds him, smiling.

“I did,” he acknowledges. _Wish I hadn’t_ , he thinks. “Do people always sleep together before they officially date?” he wonders.

“Not always. But sometimes.” She smiles and crinkles her nose. “Dating is a little more complicated than I realized.”

“No kidding,” he says, scratching his head.

“There are no official rules,” she tells him. She traces a pattern over his chest. “You and I can make our own. For instance, many couples don’t live together until they have been dating for a while. But I’d like for you to live with me in Paris. If you want to live on your own, though, I—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he says. “You already know I don’t.”

She smiles.

“Will people talk though? Because we’re not married?”

“Not like they would have in 1918. People are nosy, so they will always gossip. But there are plenty of couples who live together without being married.” She brushes her hand through his hair. “Regardless, I don’t care what people think.”

“You never have,” he says, grinning.

She hums in agreement.

“What about titles?” he asks

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you and I are dating, and you introduce me to someone, do you just say ‘This is the man I’m dating’? Or is there some kind of official term?”

“I would probably introduce you as my boyfriend,” she answers.

“So then you’d be my girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

It seems a bit juvenile to Steve to use the terms _boy_ and _girl_ —especially considering everything they’ve done in the past few hours—but he can’t seem to think of anything that sounds better. He watches her fingers caressing his chest and turns the title over in his mind. _This is my girlfriend. Diana is my girlfriend._

Or at least he _thinks_ she’s his girlfriend. He should probably check. Just to be sure.

“We’re official, right?” he says. “With the titles and everything? Or do we have to go on a date before I can call you my girlfriend?”

“We are official,” she says, smiling. “I’m your girlfriend. And we don’t _have_ to do anything. Like I said, we can make our own rules.”

“Rule number one then,” he says, leaning toward her. He slips his hand beneath the sheet, slides it across her side and to the small of her back, and kisses her. Her back arches beneath his hand, and he traces the curve of her spine up to her shoulder blades and then back down.

“I like this rule,” she says against his lips. She shifts against him, lifting one of her legs to wrap around one of his, and she accidentally brushes gently against him in the process. Desire tightens in his groin and sends a wave of heat through his blood. He turns his head away from her, closes his eyes, and holds his breath, waiting for it to pass.

There’s no way they can go again already. He can’t. He really, _really_ wants to. But he can’t. It’s just too soon.

When he opens his eyes and looks at her he finds that she is watching him, smiling.

“You should get some rest,” she says. Her voice is analytical but there is heat in her eyes and he moves toward her immediately, rolling her onto her back beneath him.

He kisses her. She hums in the back of her throat and kisses him back, hooking one of her legs around his. He kisses her for a long time, wanting to leave her dazed and flushed, and when he pulls back a little he is pleased to see that she is.

“I mean it,” she says, her fingertips skittering over his cheek.

He grins and leans in again. “Not tired,” he says against her lips.

“Liar,” she whispers against his.

He slides his mouth across her jawline. “It’s too soon for me,” he whispers in her ear.

“I know,” she answers, scratching her nails up his back. “You should sleep.”

He kisses his way down her neck and then pauses at the the dip in her throat just above her collarbone. He tastes her skin, and then murmurs against it, “It’s not too soon for you.”

He trails his mouth down the center of her chest, and then further still, but she catches his face before he gets to her navel. He looks up at her. She brushes her thumb over his lips.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says.

He glides his tongue along the pad of her thumb. “What if I want to?”

Her eyes go dark and hungry, her teeth pressing down into her bottom lip.

“Rule number two,” he breathes against her skin, still watching her, waiting for her approval.

She lets go of his head.

He smiles.

She’s going to be the death of him.


	13. Thirteen

Every day, Diana wakes at dawn. It is a remnant from her years of training with Antiope, who believed that rising any later than the sun was an unforgivable sin. Even all these years later, it doesn’t seem to matter where she is—she could be on the other side of the globe for work, and her body will wake at the exact moment the sun peeks above the horizon.

Today is no different. Even after a late night with Steve, Diana is immediately awake the second sunlight starts to creep through the blinds. Once again, she finds that Steve has wrapped his body around hers, his arm curled protectively around her waist. She runs her fingertips over his forearm, his skin smooth beneath her touch.

She still can’t quite believe that he’s here.

She briefly contemplates spending the day in bed. Despite her century of life, she’s never actually done it—there was always something to do, or somewhere to be, or the realization that _wanting_ to spend the day in bed with someone meant she was getting too attached and needed to pull away. But today there is nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no need to pull away. She could spend the day in bed with Steve.  

_Well_ , she thinks wryly, smirking at herself, _the nothing to do part isn’t totally true_. It’s Monday. She needs to check in with work. Her assistant has rescheduled all her meetings for the next few days, and she can’t examine artifacts when she’s half a world away. But she does have a department to manage, and some excavations and negotiations that need to be checked in on. So, she should probably get up.

_Someday_ , she thinks, closing her eyes and running her fingers over Steve’s skin again. _Someday we will spend the entire day in bed._

She slides slowly out of Steve’s embrace and onto the floor. He groans and reaches across the now empty space where she’d been. “Diana?” he murmurs sleepily.

She bends over the bed and pushes his sleep-rumpled hair back from his face. “I need to make some phone calls for work,” she whispers.

He cracks an eye open. “You _need_ to?”

“I need to,” she says, unable to contain her smile.

“Well I need you in bed with me,” he says, tugging on her arm. “Preferably without clothes.”

Diana smiles wider. “Someday we will spend the day in bed,” she promises.

“Someday could be today,” he says. His voice is slightly slurred, and his eyes are dropping closed.   

“Not today,” she whispers. “Today you need to sleep and I need to make some calls. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he says, sighing deeply. “Tomorrow.”

She presses her lips to his brow. “I love you,” she says against his skin.

He curls his fingers around her neck and brings her mouth down to his. “Love you, angel,” he says against her lips after a kiss.

Diana’s heart stutters in her chest. She has never thought of Steve as a man who uses pet names. The fact that he is using one now tells her that he’s already half asleep and probably not even aware he’s doing so. Sure enough, his hand drops from her neck and he rolls slightly, curling his arm around her pillow and pulling it against his chest where her body once was, and then he is asleep.  

Diana stays bent over him, emotion thick in her throat. He has only ever called her _angel_ when they are making love. In Veld, once. And last night, after their fight, twice. She’s been called many things over the years. Never angel. It’s his term of endearment alone, and every time he says it she feels as though her heart will beat straight out of her chest from the force of wanting to tell him _I’m yours_.

The temptation to pull the pillow from his grasp and crawl back into his arms is overpowering. She hovers over the bed, torn, but the sight of his chest rising and falling slowly is what makes her straighten. He is already asleep. If she climbs back into bed he will wake up and smile at her, and she will want to kiss his smile, and they are still so new to each other that there’s no way it will stop with a kiss. She exhausted him enough last night. He’s earned some sleep.

She kisses him once more on the crown of his head and then turns away from the bed before she’s tempted to wake him regardless of how tired he is. She manages to find her clothes and pull them on, and then she treads quietly out of his bedroom and closes the door behind her.

She checks her phone as she makes her way down the hall toward her own bedroom. She’s got a few missed calls, all from work, and two text messages. The first is from her assistant, Sophie. _Hate to bother you, but Hugo’s having some issues in Crete. Nothing you can’t fix, I’m sure :)_ The second is from Lois. _I’m still waiting for my picture._

Diana smiles and answers Lois first. _He’s asleep. Taking pictures of sleeping people is creepy._ Then she types out a response to Sophie. _Calling Hugo shortly._

Once she’s in her bedroom she sheds her clothes, takes a very quick shower, and then pulls on some yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt. She pulls her wet hair back into a bun at the base of her neck but doesn’t bother with any makeup. She skims her emails quickly but nothing is urgent, so she slips her wireless headphones into her ears, calls Hugo, and then makes her way toward the kitchen for some tea.

When Hugo answers, he is frantic. She has to ask him to slow down multiple times, but he doesn’t. His explanation drags on and on. Somewhere in the middle, her phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Lois. _It’s only creepy if you’re the paparazzi. It’s not creepy when you’re the bae._ Diana smiles and types out a response as Hugo continues to babble in her ear. By the time he is finished Diana’s tea is ready and she already has another message from Lois.

“Are you at the site now?” Diana asks Hugo in French.

Predictably, he gives her a four sentence answer when a simple yes or no would do.

“So yes, you are,” she clarifies.

Another three sentences.

Diana bobs a tea bag in and out of her mug. “Put the archaeologist on.”

Hugo argues. Diana sips her tea and waits until he’s done. “I speak Arabic, Hugo. It won’t be a problem. Put him on.”

After another few sentences from Hugo, Diana is finally speaking to who she needs to speak to. Hugo, unsurprisingly, has worked the archaeologist into a frustrated lather. He doesn’t bother to ask who Diana is, and instead launches into an explanation about why he will not do what he is being asked to do. Diana waits patiently and sips her tea. When the archaeologist pauses, she interjects.

“I sympathize with your frustrations,” she tells him in Arabic. “But this is non-negotiable.”

A brief, terse exchange follows, and that’s when the archaeologist finally demands to know who he is speaking to. She tells him. There is a long pause on the other end of the line. Diana tries very hard not to smirk into the silence. When the archaeologist speaks again, it is with a far different tone.

“There is no need for apologies,” Diana tells him, and she means it. “I understand Hugo can be difficult. But your funder and I have already agreed that this is what will be done. I trust that I can count on you to complete the job as requested.”

Profuse, flattering assurances are offered from the other end of the line.

Someone clears their throat nearby. Diana looks up to see Bruce shuffling into the kitchen. He looks exhausted. She smiles at him, and he nods at her before making his way toward the coffeemaker.

“If there are any other problems, please have Hugo call me directly,” she says in Arabic. The archaeologist agrees, and then Hugo is back on the line. She says the same thing to him, but in French. He offers a long-winded apology and then, finally, the call is over.

Diana pulls the headphones from her ears and mutters in Greek under her breath. When she looks up, Bruce is smirking at her over the rim of his mug.

“Arabic, French, Greek,” he says. “Just a normal morning for you, I suppose.”

“Some people think working for a museum is boring,” she tells him, reaching for her own mug. “I have not found that to be true.”

He hums in agreement and takes a long sip of coffee. Diana watches him from the other side of the kitchen island that’s between them. She wants to remind him that he needs to look after himself if he wants to continue looking after Gotham. She wants to cross the room and pull the mug from his grasp and usher him back to his bedroom and into his bed to sleep. But she can’t do either of those things. Bruce does not like to be fussed over. And even if he did, she is not the person to do it. Not after last night, when he looked at her the way he did and she still walked away to be with Steve.

She knows she needs to be careful. They both need time to readjust to a relationship that doesn’t include sex and all the emotions it brings with it. But she cares about him too much to ignore the dark circles around his eyes.

“You look tired,” she says quietly.

He meets her gaze. “It was a long night.”

“Did you find out who broke into LexCorp?”

He shakes his head. “No. Something else.”

She doesn’t say anything. He will tell her if he wants to. After a moment or two, he moves forward so that they are standing closer, but still separated by the island. He plants his palms on the counter and leans over them.

“I have some bad news, some good news, and a plan.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “For me?”

“For you.”

She sips her tea. “Okay.”

“What do you want first?”

“The bad news.”

He nods. He stares down into his coffee. “I met with Constantine last night.”

Diana’s heart leaps into her throat. She had asked for the bad news first, but she was not prepared to hear this kind of bad news. Somewhere in the back of her mind a small voice reminds her that Bruce had agreed _not_ to meet with Constantine until she gave the go ahead. But the possibility that he’s about to tell her that Steve can’t become immortal makes any anger she could have had evaporate.  

“And?” she says. It’s all she can manage to get out.

Bruce looks up. “He lied to Waller. His blood slows aging, but only his. It’s demonically tainted. If it was transfused into Steve it would kill him.”

Diana nods. Her entire body feels as though it has gone numb. “I see.”

“The good news,” Bruce says immediately, leaning toward her over the counter, “is that there’s another way.”

Diana lifts her eyes to his. “What is it?”

“Constantine is a sorcerer. He says there’s a spell that will stop Steve from aging permanently.”

“And he’s willing to do it?”

“Yes.”

“In exchange for what?”

“There’s a book he needs in order to perform the spell. He wants to keep it once it’s done.”

Diana does not need her lasso to know when someone is trying to avoid telling her the entire truth. She suspects that Bruce has promised Constantine something else too, but she isn’t sure she wants to call him on it. “What’s in the book?” she asks instead.

Bruce shrugs. “Other spells.”

“Dangerous spells?”

“I’m not sure.”

She narrows her eyes. “And you’re actually considering giving it to him?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, straightening. “I know you want Steve to be immortal.”

“Not if it’s going to cost someone else something.”

Bruce shakes his head. “It won’t.”

“You said Constantine was a con man,” she reminds him.

“He is.”

“And you’re okay with letting a con man keep a spell book that could be dangerous?”

Bruce rakes a hand through his hair and says nothing.

“That’s a cost, Bruce. A cost that innocent people will pay just so I can have what I want. I won’t do that.”

“He’s not that kind of con man,” Bruce tells her impatiently. “Technically, he’s a good guy.”

Diana stares at him. “Technically?”

“He’s an insufferable smartass,” Bruce says. “And I don’t like his methods. He can be reckless, but he’s not evil. And that book is better off in his hands than it is in Waller’s.”

Bruce must realize a second too late that he hadn’t mentioned the last part to her yet. He winces the same way Barry does when he realizes he’s eaten some of Arthur’s snacks.

Diana folds her arms over her chest and fixes him with a stare. “Waller has the book,” she says.

He nods. “It’s in the D.C. headquarters of A.R.G.U.S.”

“And you think she’s just going to give it to us? After what happened yesterday?”

“No. But I don’t need her to give it to us. I know someone who specializes in obtaining items without—”

“You can’t be serious,” Diana cuts him off.

“Diana—”

“Bruce,” she interrupts emphatically. “You cannot steal from the U.S. government. Not for me.”

“Waller is dangerous, Diana. Constantine is less dangerous. If we do this, the book is safe in his hands _and_ Steve is immortal. It’s a win-win.”

“That we achieved by robbing the federal government,” she exclaims. “Do you know what happens if your friend gets caught? If he ties this back to the League?”

“She won’t get caught. And Waller won’t even know it’s gone. We can leave a fake.”

Diana shakes her head. “Waller’s ignorance doesn’t make it right.”

“We’ve stolen things before,” Bruce reminds her.

“For the greater good,” she counters. “Not for my personal benefit.”

“Getting this book out of Waller’s hands _is_ the greater good. And besides, you’ve spent a hundred years fighting for the greater good,” Bruce says, throwing out his hands. “You’ve saved the world more times than anyone even knows, Diana. You deserve this.”

“Do you realize how hypocritical you’re being? How can you stand there and say that to me after what you said to Barry yesterday?”

“Barry was right,” Bruce snaps.

Diana stares at him, taken aback.

“What he did was idiotic. I wouldn’t have done it. But I’ll do this,” he tells her. “This is my chance to give something back to you and I’m going to take it, Waller be damned. She threatened us, Diana. She threatened you. I won’t stand for that.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Bruce. I don’t need you to—”

“Don’t do that,” he cuts her off. “Don’t act like I don’t respect what you can do. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what’s it about? What has gotten into you? You told me last night to stand above people like Waller.”

“And you should. But I’m not you.”

Anger flares in the pit of her stomach. “So what are you, my sin eater?”

He lifts his chin defiantly. “I’ll do what I have to do.”

“I don’t need you to do my dirty work.”

“Of course not,” he growls. He’s starting to get frustrated. “You don’t need anybody to do anything for you.”

“That’s right.”

“Well I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I want to.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?” she demands, her voice rising.

“You _know_ why,” he tells her, his voice just as loud.

They stare at each other over the counter. He is the first to look away. He turns away from her, pacing across the floor. Diana bends forward and puts her elbows on the counter, pressing her fingers to her temples. She closes her eyes.

She knew he had feelings for her. She has feelings for him, too. But what he’s talking about now—making iffy deals with men he doesn’t fully trust, calling in favors from thieves that he knows, stealing from Waller and by extension the federal government—this is not what men do when they have a crush. It is not what men do when they are starting to develop feelings.

It’s what men do when they’re already in love.

She folds her hands beneath her chin and looks up at him. He turns back to face her, and then immediately turns away again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re heartbroken that I fell for you.”

“Bruce—”

“There’s nothing else to say,” he cuts her off, turning back to face her. “We said it all last night. You’re with him, and you should be. So don’t.”

She swallows her words and exhales a long breath. The room is painfully silent for a moment.

“I won’t steal it without your permission,” he tells her.

She shakes her head. “I won’t agree to it without his. Let me talk to him.”

“Fine. But he’ll want to do it.”

“How do you know?”

He finally looks her in the eye. “I just do,” he says.

There are a million things she wants to say. She can’t say any of them. She realizes belatedly that they’re in the same room where he kissed her for the first time. Her heart aches in her chest.

Bruce folds his arms, his face a mask of indifference. “Are you ready to hear the plan now?”

Diana blinks at him. “Stealing the book isn’t the plan?”

“No. Stealing the book is part of the good news. The plan is about something else.”

Diana rubs her temples again. “By the gods, Bruce,” she says with exasperation. “Between you and Barry I’d have a head full of gray hair if I wasn’t immortal.”

Bruce smirks at her. “Good thing you’re immortal then, huh?”

She purses her lips around a smile and straightens. “What’s the plan, you insufferable man?”

He smiles a little at her insult and returns to his spot across from her. He wraps his hands around his coffee mug. “I’ve been thinking about Waller’s proposal. About how she wants to oversee the League.”

“Okay,” Diana says neutrally. She already hates where this is going.

“She’s right. Sooner or later the world is going to want us to answer to someone, even if it’s only on paper. And her agency is the least terrible of all our options because they already work with people like us. They know how to deal with superpowers. It’s why the agency exists.”

“Waller is a psychopath,” Diana reminds him. “She implanted nano bombs in people’s skulls.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “And right now there is no one holding her accountable. If we worked with her, we could keep an eye on her. We could make sure that she doesn’t do anything like that ever again.”

Diana is intrigued. She drums her fingers on the counter. “I’m listening,” she says reluctantly.

Bruce’s eyes are alight the way they always are when he’s explaining a plan. “I think we should make her a counteroffer,” he tells her. “A.R.G.U.S. can provide oversight and accountability to the League, but only if we remain an independent body with full control over what we do and how we do it. We don’t take orders from her.”

“Isn’t that more or less what she proposed?” Diana asks. “The only difference between her offer and your counteroffer is that we’d want it in writing that she can’t force us to do her bidding.”

“That’s a pretty big difference,” Bruce points out.

“Yes,” Diana acknowledges. “But even if she can’t give us orders, we still have to work with her. We still have to trust that whatever she’s reporting back to her superiors about us is accurate, and that any intel she gives us is sound.”

“And that’s where the second difference between our proposals comes in,” Bruce says, folding his arms over his chest. “Waller wanted us working with her and her chosen operatives. I want us working with someone we trust—someone who is loyal to us even if A.R.G.U.S. is the one signing his paycheck.”

“Like a liaison,” Diana says.

“Exactly like that. Waller gets the status she wants because as the head of A.R.G.U.S., she technically oversees the League. But all of the actual oversight work—managing our interactions with law enforcement and other government agencies, accompanying us on missions, writing and submitting reports on our activities—all that is done by our liaison, not her.”

Diana thinks it over. There are a lot of details that would need to be ironed out, but it’s not a bad idea. “Do you know someone who works for A.R.G.U.S. that you trust enough to be our liaison?” she asks.

“Not someone currently working for A.R.G.U.S.,” he says slowly. “But I do know someone we could tell her to hire if she wants to oversee us. Someone who’s loyalty we would never have to question. He has extensive experience working in the field on classified missions. There’s very little chance that Waller could manipulate him effectively. He’s already figured her out once. Way quicker than any of the rest of us.”

Diana frowns. “Who ar—”

She stops abruptly when she realizes.

Steve is loyal to her. Steve has extensive experience working in the field on classified missions. Steve is a spy, and Waller would have a difficult time manipulating him. Steve is the one who put it together that Waller was using him and Barry to get to her.

“You want Steve to work for Amanda Waller,” she says, breathless.

“Yes.”

“ _No_.”

“Diana, he’s perfect for the job.”

“He’s been here for two days, Bruce. He doesn’t even know how to use a computer.”

“He’ll learn.”

Diana shakes her head. _No_ , she thinks. _No, no, no_. She just got him back. She won’t send him straight back into the lion’s den.

“I have friends in the intelligence community,” Bruce is saying. “I read his file.”

Diana curses in Greek. “You have no shame,” she tells him, glaring.

“Have you read it?” he asks, ignoring her. “It’s beyond impressive. The man was singlehandedly responsible for gathering and delivering intel that was instrumental in ending World War I.”

“I know,” she says coldly. “I was there.”

He finally looks a little abashed. Diana mutters at him again in Greek.

Bruce straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw, steeling himself against her anger. “You know how good he is then,” he says quietly. “You know he’s smart, and resourceful, and—”

“I know what he can do,” Diana interrupts. “I don’t need you to recite his file to me.”

“So your hesitation isn’t because you think he’s incapable.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Diana says, spitting the words at him. “You know damn well what my hesitation is about Bruce.”

She rarely curses—in English, anyway—and a brief look of surprise flits over his face. It morphs quickly into something sympathetic, and that only makes her madder.

“Diana,” he says gently, and she seriously considers reaching across the counter and smacking him hard enough to rearrange his hundred dollar haircut. “If you want to keep Steve safe, this is the best way to—”

“In what universe is sending him to work for that woman the best way to keep him safe?”

“It’s just like a vaccine,” Bruce says patiently. “We inject kids with a weakened form of a virus so that they build up an immunity to it. Being officially associated with the League is Steve’s vaccine. If he’s her only connection to us, she won’t touch him.”

“He can be our liaison elsewhere. To the DOJ, or the Department of Homeland Security—”

“No,” Bruce interrupts. “It has to be A.R.G.U.S. or it won’t work. We have to give Waller what she wants. Or at least the appearance of it.”

“Why?”

“Because she won’t stop until she gets it. You humiliated her yesterday, Diana. She’s not going to take that lying down, especially if we end up working with another agency. She’s going to come after you, and she’s going to do it by going after him.”

Diana squares her shoulders. “So let her come.”

“She won’t stop until she’s dead. You ready to kill her?”

“If I have to.”

“Then Wonder Woman will be ruined forever,” he says matter of factly. “If Waller goes down, she will take you with her. She will make sure the world knows that you were the one who killed her, and no matter how justified you were, no matter who you were protecting, you will never again be seen as a hero. Not when she’s done with you.”

Rage flashes through Diana at the prospect. “I won’t lose him again,” she vows, and the words come back to her ears sounding like a snarl. “Not to her.”

“Then you’ve got three options,” he says, brazen in the face of her fury. “You can run and hide him from Waller and stop being Wonder Woman. You can stand and fight and kill her and all those that she sends and stop being Wonder Woman. Or you can negotiate.”

“Fine. She can oversee the League. But we can negotiate with her without involving him.”

“No, no, Diana, listen,” Bruce says, rounding the counter and coming to stand next to her. “Do you know why Constantine lied to Waller? He told her his blood could slow aging because it made him _valuable_ to her. She’s not going to kill him if he can make her ageless. The same is true for Steve. If he’s valuable to her—if he’s the only way she can be connected to the League—she’s not going to touch him.”

“If she has the League she won’t want to touch him.”

“Yes she will,” Bruce argues. “Someday she will want something and she will blackmail you to get it. She will use Steve against you. Against _us_. You have to make him immune, Diana. You have to make him the League’s liaison.”

Diana feels like her head is going to explode. She turns away from Bruce and paces to the other side of the kitchen, pressing her fingertips hard against her temples. An hour ago she was contemplating staying in bed all day with Steve. Now, she’s trying to figure out how to keep him alive without sacrificing who she is.

“Diana,” Bruce calls.

She holds her hand out but doesn’t turn around. “Just give me a minute.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Diana tilts her head toward the ceiling, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath.

Bruce is right. If the League continues to refuse to work with Waller, or if they agree to work with another agency instead, she will come after Steve. Running and hiding is not an option. Diana doesn’t have it in her to hide, and neither does Steve.

She could stand and fight, or go after Waller like she said she would. But Bruce is right about the consequences of that too. Diana could handle the destruction of Wonder Woman’s reputation if she knew that what she’d done was right. But it wouldn’t just be Wonder Woman who would suffer. None of the other members of the League will let her stand alone. Bruce and Clark, Barry and Vic and Arthur—they will all stand with her, regardless of the cost, regardless of the fact that they do not love Steve as she does. They will ruin their reputations for her, and the League will cease to be the beacon of hope and goodness that it is.

Which leaves the negotiation. They could give Waller what she wants now without involving Steve. But Bruce has thought that out too, and once again he is right. Even if the League manages to form a workable partnership with A.R.G.U.S. in order to soothe Waller’s humiliation and thirst for power, Steve will continue to be a bargaining chip. Eventually, Waller will want something from Diana or the League, and she will threaten Steve to get it.

The only way to keep him safe from Waller is to make him untouchable—to make him the Justice League’s liaison to A.R.G.U.S.

And Diana _hates_ that.

But Waller is not the only issue at hand. There is also Steve. He is a soldier. Diana knows it’s been agonizing for him to stay behind the past two days while she went off with Bruce to handle League business. That agony is only going to get worse as time goes on.

Right now they’re in the middle of their honeymoon phase, cocooned in Gotham and away from the demands of life. But soon they will go to Paris, and she will go back to work, and he will have days and days stretched before him to fill. Sooner or later she will have to put her armor on and fight the next threat that comes—and Steve will never be happy just watching from the sidelines.

She knows he would love working as the League’s liaison, even if it was for Waller. She knows he would love to fight by her side again. If she’s honest with herself, she would love it too.

But she is terrified to lose him again.

Diana opens her eyes and sighs heavily. Scared or not, she cannot make this decision for Steve. It is his life, and hesitant as she is to see him in danger she is even more unwilling to start their life together by ignoring his right to decide his own future.

She turns to Bruce. “Steve is asleep. When he wakes, you can present him with your plan. He can decide.”

Bruce frowns. “What about you?”

“What he does is not up to me.”

“So if he agrees to do it?”

Diana lifts her chin. “Then so will I.”


	14. Fourteen

Steve slides slowly into wakefulness.

The first thing he notices is that Diana is _not_ in bed. His arms are not wrapped around her body but around her pillow, and although it is a perfectly acceptable pillow—above average, even—it’s not her.

He blinks blearily and cranes his neck to look at the other side of the bed. She’s not there, either. He squints around the room. It’s empty and quiet.

He collapses back onto his pillow and groans. Each of the past three nights—two in 2018 and one in 1918—he has gone to bed with Diana in his arms. And each of the following mornings, he has woken up alone. The first two mornings, at least, she was still in the room. This morning she’s not, and although it might just be because he hasn’t had any coffee yet, he’s feeling a little grumpy about it.

On the bedside table, sitting next to his father’s watch, is a clock that says 10:48. Steve stares at it and tries to recall if she woke him up before she left in order to tell him where she was going. He can’t remember. He remembers falling asleep with her body draped over his. He remembers their conversation about dating, and living together, and making their own rules. He remembers kissing his way across every inch of her skin, and the way she whispered his name, and the hard shudder of her muscles just before she—

Yeah, see, now he’s _definitely_ pissed she isn’t here.

He forces himself to sit up and think about something else, anything but her. Baseball. Baseball is good. The White Sox won the 1917 World Series over the New York Giants, beat them four games to two, Red Faber and Eddie Collins were great, and he’d won a bet off of a buddy of his who had been a Giants fan.

Okay. That’s better.

He rakes a hand through his hair and goes back to trying to remember if Diana woke him this morning. He has a very vague recollection of her saying something about needing to work, but he has no idea if that’s actually true or if he’s just imagining it. Either way, he figures he might as well get up and get dressed and go find her.

And maybe see if he can coax her back into bed. Hers this time.

It isn’t until he climbs out of bed and stretches that he realizes how sore his muscles are. His back, his legs, _and_ his arms. Everything is sore. Why is he so _sore_?

Definitely the wrong question to ask. Now he’s thinking about her again, and last night, and the look on her face when she—

The White Sox won the World Series in 1917 over the New York Giants, beat them four games to two, Red Faber and Eddie Collins...

He gets the feeling he’s going to be reciting a lot of baseball stats in the foreseeable future.

“Just had to go and fall in love with a goddess,” he mutters to himself, hobbling toward the bags of clothes that he bought with Diana yesterday. She must have brought them in at some point while he was sleeping, because he doesn’t remember doing that himself.

There is a bathroom across the hall from his bedroom. It takes him a few minutes, but he eventually figures out how to work the shower. He finds a razor in the cupboard, but decides he kind of likes the stubble that’s coming in and leaves it. After he pulls on some of his new clothes, he heads in what he hopes is the direction of the kitchen and the coffeemaker.

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Barry sitting at the table, hunched over a bowl. Diana is nowhere in sight. Barry’s eyes widen at the sight of Steve, and he freezes with a spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Morning,” Steve says.

Barry nods but says nothing. Steve frowns. He hasn’t known Barry very long, but he knows that silence is uncharacteristic.

“You okay?”

Barry swallows and drops his spoon into his bowl with a clang. “Yeah. Uh. Listen. I’m sorry about last night. I don’t know if Diana told you…”

His face is nearly as red as his suit. It takes Steve a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, and then he remembers Diana answering his bedroom door in nothing but his shirt and being given a stack of books from a very flustered speedster.

Steve waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to apologize.”

“It wasn’t that late,” Barry explains, still blushing, “so I didn’t think you’d be asleep and I definitely didn’t think you guys were—”

He stops abruptly.

“I mean, I knew you guys—”

Another abrupt stop.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says again, taking pity on him. “Seriously.”

Barry grins sheepishly. “Okay.”

Steve turns toward the coffeemaker and is relieved to see that it is no longer blinking like it was yesterday afternoon. He sets a mug beneath the spout, puts a pod in, presses the button, and coffee immediately starts to fill the mug.

“Thank god,” Steve mutters, rubbing his face. When it’s finished, he sips at it gingerly and turns back to Barry.

“Do you know where Diana is?” he asks.

Barry points out the window with his spoon. “Out in the stables, I think. She rides a lot.”

Steve had no idea Bruce had horses, but he’s not surprised to hear that Diana spends a lot of time out there. Maybe that’s what they could do for their first date, since he knows he won’t look like an idiot doing it.

Unless horseback riding isn’t something you do on a date? Horses are beautiful, but they’re also functional. He doesn’t want their date to be functional. He wants it to be romantic. But he doesn’t know what constitutes romance in the twenty-first century. Flowers, maybe? Poetry? He’s not a poetry guy. Does Diana even like flowers?

He has no idea how this is supposed to work.

“I can take you out there if you want,” Barry offers. He’s smiling kindly, helpfully, and Steve figures, _What the hell, might as well ask._

“Actually,” he says, heading toward the table. “Let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

He sets his mug down on the table and sits in the chair next to Barry. “How much do you know about dating?”

Barry snorts. “Tons. I date all the time. I am a dating _machine_.”

“Really?” Steve asks hopefully.

“No,” Barry snorts again. “I’m terrible at it. Women think I’m awkward and weird.” He looks thoughtful. “Vic says it’s because I talk too fast and fidget constantly.”

Steve nods. “You do talk fast.”

“Yeah,” Barry says, still looking off into the distance. He straightens suddenly and grins. “Diana says the right woman will find it endearing.”

Steve smiles. Of course she did. “Diana is very fond of you,” he says, sipping his coffee.

Barry beams. “You think?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. I’m fond of her too.” His eyes widen. “Not like that,” he adds quickly. “I’m not trying to steal your girl. She’s just, you know, I mean she’s kind of like…”

“I know what you meant,” Steve tells him, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Okay good,” Barry says, clearly relieved. He furrows his eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, Diana and I are…” Steve trails off.

“Together?” Barry offers.

“Yeah. Officially,” Steve adds, just for the sake of clarification.

Barry rolls his eyes. “Well duh.”

Steve frowns at him. Barry grins. “I mean, your togetherness was kind of obvious last night when she answered your door in nothing but your shirt.” His face is slightly red again.

“Right,” Steve says. “Well, where I come from—”

“You’re American, right?”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“You’re American. I mean, I think I remember you saying that you were American Expeditionary Forces, but then you were working for British intelligence, right?”

“Yeah. And yes, I’m American. Anyway, I—”

“What state?”

“What?”

“What state are you from?”

Steve blinks again. “Ohio.”

“Oh, nice. Ohio State’s football team crushed us last—”

“Barry.”

“What?”

“Can you focus?”

Barry grins. “Sorry.”

“Where I come from,” Steve starts again, “dating didn’t exist. If you wanted to spend time alone with a woman in a socially acceptable way there were a lot of unwritten rules, and it was kind of complicated.”

Barry nods sagely. “I saw that in a movie once. You guys, like, courted and stuff.”

“Right. But it’s not like that now.”

“Nope. All you gotta do is swipe right and boom! You got yourself a date.”

“Swipe right?” Steve repeats, mystified.

“Nevermind, it doesn’t matter,” Barry says, waving his hand. “Continue.”

“I want to take Diana on a date,” Steve says. “Our first date, technically. And I want it to be special. But I’m not really sure what...why are you looking at me like that?”

Barry is looking at Steve the way his great aunt Mildred used to whenever she saw him at Christmastime. It’s a little unsettling.

“I’m just really happy for you guys,” Barry says, shaking his head. “Diana is the greatest, and you’re great too, and I just...”

He launches himself forward, wraps his arms around Steve, and squeezes fiercely.

“Whoa,” Steve says, rocking back against his chair. He pats Barry on the back. “Okay. Yeah. You’re great too, Barry.”

Barry pulls away and grins. “Thanks man.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Barry drops his chin and looks suddenly serious. “Okay. So. You want to sweep Diana off her feet but you’re not sure how to do it without being super old-fashioned and lame.”

Steve frowns as he reaches for his coffee. “Um. Yeah?”

“I don’t know anything about dating. But,” Barry says, holding up an index finger, “we’ve got a couple of options. Option number one: We could ask Bruce.”

Steve chokes on his coffee. Barry smacks him on the back a few times as he coughs.

“Bruce?” Steve finally wheezes.

“Yeah, Bruce. The dude is a chick magnet. You should see the women he dates. And he dates constantly. Always someone new on his arm, and she’s always a stunner. If anyone can teach you how to sweep Diana off her feet, it’s Bruce.”

Steve shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Why not?”

Barry obviously doesn’t know about Diana and Bruce. Steve gets the feeling that nobody in the League knows, except probably Alfred, who Steve suspects knows everything. If Barry doesn’t know, Steve certainly isn’t going to be the one to tell him. He tries to think of something to say other than _Well, before you brought me back Diana and Bruce were having sex as part of a mostly physical, not-quite-casual romantic relationship that I’m pretty sure would’ve ended up official at some point if it weren’t for me._

He’s got nothing.

“He’s uh…” Steve says.

“Grumpy?” Barry supplies. “I know. Don’t take it personally. He’s grumpy to pretty much everyone except Diana.”

_This just keeps getting worse,_ Steve thinks.

“Okay, option two,” Barry says, totally oblivious. “We do what I do whenever I don’t know the answer to something.”

“What’s that?”

Barry grins. “Google.”

“What the hell is a Google?”

Barry pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “It’s an internet search engine. You type in whatever you want to know, and it brings up the answer. Here, I’ll show you.”

Barry holds the phone between them and taps the screen a few times. Steve leans toward it, fascinated. A white background comes up, and some multicolored letters spelling out _Google_.

“So,” Barry says, “all you do is type what you want to know into this bar. For instance, let’s say you wanted to see what people were saying about The Flash.” He grins up at Steve. “And who could blame you? You type in _The Flash_ here, and then a bunch of websites talking about me pop up.”

Barry types out the words, and Steve watches in amazement as the screen is suddenly filled with lines of blue and black lettering. He reads the first line, which says _Is The Flash the least impressive member of The Justice League?_

“Hey,” Barry squeaks, clearly offended.

“I think you’re very impressive,” Steve offers helpfully.

“Thank you,” Barry says. “Okay. Let’s just get to the good stuff. How to plan a first date.”

Barry types the words, and then they both watch as the results pop up.

“Here,” Barry says, pointing. “First date tips for men: How to plan the perfect first date. Oh, and look, it’s from a site called _The Art of Manliness_.” He grins. “Manly is good.”

Steve squints at the results. “This says I’m supposed to clean the car.” He looks up at Barry. “I don’t have a car.”

“Hold on, let me click it.” Barry presses the screen, and suddenly they’re staring at a black and white photo. “Oh, look, an old photo,” he says brightly. “That’s a good sign, cause you’re old.”

Steve stares at him.

“Old- _er_ ,” Barry corrects. “Than me. Okay. Nevermind. Let’s just scroll down here….okay. First step: Plan. It says women are suckers for a man with a plan.”

“Why would the first step of planning a date be to plan?” Steve asks, frowning. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Right, yeah, let’s skip it.” Barry flicks his thumb, and the screen moves. “Ok, next, clean the car. You don’t have a car. Right, skip that too.” Another flick of the thumb. “Get some cash.”

They both look up at each other.

“I don’t have a job,” Steve says.

Barry shrugs. “I can lend you some cash.”

Steve frowns. “So you’re going to pay for my first date with Diana? That seems...not right.”

“Well how else are you going to pay for it?” Barry asks. He tilts his head. “I guess she could pay.”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “She bought me clothes yesterday and it cost a small fortune.” He frowns. “I guess I could wait to take her out until I get a job?”

“Well what are you going to get a job doing?”

“I don’t know, what jobs are there in the twenty-first century?”

Barry grimaces. “Not a whole lot for people who don’t know much about technology.”

Steve shakes his head. “This is bad.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Barry says, patting Steve on the shoulder. “Here, we can search _free_ first date ideas.” He types it in. “There, see! 68 totally free date ideas that you’ll actually want to try.”

“What are they?” Steve asks, leaning toward the phone.

Barry presses the screen and the site pops up. “Number one: Attempt to set a Guinness World Record.”

Steve frowns. “Guinness, like the beer?”

“No, like the record book. It’s where...you know what, forget that one. Diana’s already broken enough records. Next one says get lost on purpose.”

“Who gets lost on purpose?” Steve asks.

Barry nods. “Yeah, that’s dumb. Next one: Answer this _New York Times_ questionnaire that might make you fall in love.”

“We’re already in love.”

“True. Okay, how about this one: Take a free class at your library or community center in something neither of you are good at.”

They stare at each other.

“Diana is good at pretty much everything,” Barry says.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

“Feed the ducks?” Barry says, reading the next one.

Steve frowns. “Why would a woman want to feed a duck on a date?”

Barry shrugs. “I like ducks.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”

“What’s a disaster?” Diana’s voice asks from behind them.

Both Steve and Barry leap to their feet, their chairs screeching backward against the floor. Steve’s elbow rams into Barry’s hand, Barry’s phone goes flying into the air, and Barry bumbles it a few times before catching it and shoving it behind his back.

“Nothing,” they say in unison, turning to face Diana.

Diana lifts her eyebrows and glances between them. Steve trails his eyes over her body—her pants (dark jeans this time), and her sweater (red, deep v-neck, thin silver necklace around her neck), and her hair (gathered loosely at the base of her neck). He decides that she could probably make an outfit of day-old newspapers look good.

Diana settles her gaze on Barry. “What were you looking at on your phone?” she asks.

“Stuff,” Barry sputters.

“Barry was teaching me how to Google,” Steve says smoothly.

Diana turns her gaze toward him and Steve realizes two things the moment their eyes meet: First, she does not believe him. And second, even without her lasso, she could very easily get him to tell her anything she wanted to know.

“I see,” she says. She looks back at Barry. “Can you give me a minute alone with Steve?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Barry says a little too energetically. He slides his phone into his pocket and starts for the door, then stops. He turns around and gives Diana a sheepish look. “About last night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, smiling kindly.

Barry looks so relieved that Steve wants to laugh. “Kay, bye,” he says, and then he’s gone in a rush of air.

Diana smiles after him fondly. Steve takes advantage of her momentary distraction to close the distance between them. By the time she looks in his direction he’s already reaching for her, slipping his hands around her waist and bending his head toward hers.

“Hi,” he says, his voice low.

“Hi,” she murmurs in return the moment before their lips meet.

He kisses her the way he wanted to kiss her when he woke up alone in his bed. She threads her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck, her lips soft against his, her body liquid in his embrace. _Rule number three_ , he thinks. _Every morning should start like this_.

“Did you wake me up this morning, or did I dream that?” he asks after she pulls away.

“I woke you,” she says, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I had to make some phone calls for work. And then I went out to the stables to clear my head.”

Steve frowns. “Why’d you need to clear your head?”

She looks wistful. She runs her fingertips over his stubble. “I like this. It suits you.”

“Then I’ll keep it,” he says. “Diana, what’s going on?”

She finally looks him in the eye. “This is not how I wanted this morning to go. When you woke up I wanted to make breakfast, and read the paper, and then answer work emails while you read your new Burroughs novel.”

“Sounds nice,” he admits. She smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “What are we doing instead?” he asks.

She steps out of his embrace, and then reaches down and grabs hold of his hand the same way she had on that street in London. “Come with me,” she says quietly. “Bruce has something he wants to talk to you about.”

* * *

 “You want me to be the liaison for the Justice League,” Steve says.

He’s sitting in the Batcave in a large, black, odd looking chair. Bruce is sitting across from him, his elbows on his knees. Diana is standing off to the right with her arms folded over her chest, her back to both of them. She’s staring through the glass wall down to the first floor of the Batcave. She hasn’t looked at either of them or said a word since Bruce started talking nearly half an hour ago.

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “You would, for all intents and purposes, be one of us. Same decision-making power when it comes to group votes, same status.” He glances at Diana. “Same opportunities to fight and do field work.”

There’s a pause, and Steve finds himself glancing in Diana’s direction too. She says nothing.

“But you’d officially be working for A.R.G.U.S.”

“For Amanda Waller,” Steve clarifies.

Bruce nods. “Yeah.”

“I think I’ve got a handle on the job description,” Steve says. “But I’m not sure I understand why you think it’s in the League’s best interest.”

“Well,” Bruce says, leaning back in his chair. “There are two reasons. First, Waller is dangerous. Her agency keeps tabs on a lot of metahumans and she’s proved that she has no qualms about using them for her own purposes. We need someone we trust inside A.R.G.U.S. to keep an eye on her and let us know if we need to step in.”

“To prevent another Midway City,” Steve says. Bruce had explained all about the Suicide Squad and the implanted nano bombs. Steve had glanced at Diana then too, curious to see whether the anger that was coursing through his veins was mirrored on her face, but she hadn’t turned around.  

“Yes,” Bruce affirms. “And if we’re going to submit to government oversight, we want to work with someone we trust. Someone who can’t be manipulated by Waller or her thugs. Someone who will look out for the League’s best interest instead of their own.”

“And you trust me to be that person?” Steve says.

Bruce nods. “Yeah, I do.”

Steve knows when people are lying to him. Bruce isn’t lying.

He isn’t sure what he’s done to earn that trust. Bruce reminds him of a commanding officer he’d had back when he first started as a spy. _The best weapon you’ll ever have is preparation_ , he’d often said. _The more you know about people, the easier they are to bend to your will._

Bruce seems like the kind of guy who knows things about people. Steve would not be surprised to hear that he’s one of the people that Bruce knows things about. Maybe he’s read Steve’s military records. Maybe he’s just a good judge of character.

Maybe he trusts Steve because Diana does, and Bruce is in love with Diana.

“And the second reason?” Steve asks, trying not to think about Diana in Bruce’s bed.

“You’re a bargaining chip,” Bruce says bluntly. His gaze flickers toward Diana again.

“As long as you’re nothing but a civilian, you’re—”

“A liability to the League,” Steve interrupts.

“I was going to say you’re in danger,” Bruce says, smirking. “But liability is accurate too. Making you the liaison between the League and A.R.G.U.S. makes you valuable to Waller. And if you’re valuable to her, she won’t come after you. As our liaison, you kill two birds with one stone—we get a trusted ally inside the agency, and you stay safe.”

“And you care if I’m safe because she does.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Diana’s shoulders straighten ever so slightly. But still, she does not turn around.

Bruce lifts his chin and surveys Steve with a glimmer of new interest in his eyes. “Diana is part of the League,” Bruce says neutrally. “If something can be used against her, it can be used against all of us.”

Steve thinks of what Diana said last night—how she could convince each of the members of the League to work with A.R.G.U.S. if she wanted to. He knows how Barry feels about her. Bruce’s feelings are far less innocent, but just as significant. Steve hasn’t met any of the other members of the League, but he doesn’t need to. He knows Diana. She’s the kind of person who has her own gravitational pull. She is not just part of the League—she is its heart and soul. If she has a weakness, they all do.

And Steve is her weakness.

He feels a pang of guilt at the thought. When he took her to London, he had been exasperated by her curiosity and frustrated by her repeated refusal to do everything he asked her to do—not because he found her annoying (even at her most exasperating, she was still painfully endearing), and not because he thought of her as a burden (even before he knew he was in love with her, being in her presence made him feel whole). It was because he was _afraid_ for her.

He had worried over the men in the street who looked her up and down, and the men in the war council who had looked at her with scandalized shock. When he took her to the front, and watched her climb that ladder and step into No Man’s Land, he had worried about the men pointing their guns at her. Even after he’d seen what she could do, and realized that she was far more capable of protecting herself than he was, he had still felt as though she was his responsibility. He had brought her to his world—it was his job to keep her safe from it.

But now he’s in her world. They’re together now, in love, and being in love means they’re responsible for each other. But she is an indestructible goddess, and he is just a man. He isn’t just her responsibility, he is a liability. For her _and_ for her friends. Between the two of them the scales are weighted heavily against him, and there is nothing he can do to balance them out.

Diana is still turned away from him. She hasn’t offered any indication of how she feels about all this, but Steve doesn’t need her to. She had told him last night. _I don’t think I can handle losing you again._ He understands how she feels, because he’s felt it too. The aching, dark terror of worrying that you are not quick enough, not smart enough, not strong enough to protect someone. The paralyzing fear of failure.

He doesn’t want her to be afraid that Waller will come for him. If being the liaison for the Justice League will lessen the weight of his life that she has to carry around, then he’s ready to sign on the dotted line.

But there are still some lingering questions.

“You’re making a pretty big assumption in all this,” Steve tells Bruce, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I’m making a few,” Bruce acknowledges. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, almost as though he’s pleasantly surprised by Steve’s unwillingness to accept his plan at face value. “But which one are you talking about?”

“You’re going to tell Waller that she can have what she wants most—oversight of the League—on two conditions. First, you guys remain an independent body that she has no managerial control over. She can’t tell you what to do.”

Bruce nods. “Right.”

“And second, I’m your liaison or it’s no deal. She only retains oversight responsibilities if she works through me, and the moment I’m out, you guys are out.”

Bruce nods again. “Right.”

“And you really think she’ll agree to all that?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Because she gains nothing,” Steve says. “The claim that you’re giving her what she wants is empty. She has no direct control over you, and she loses the leverage of me as a bargaining chip. If she agrees to your terms, what does she get out of the deal?”

“Just because there’s no direct control doesn’t mean there’s no power. She may not get to give us orders, but she does get to monitor us. She gets to be the one who says she’s keeping the world’s most powerful beings in check.”

Steve nods in Diana’s direction. “If the rest of you are like her, you’ll keep yourselves in check. Diana doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“None of us do,” Bruce says. “But it’s not about that. It’s about appearances and politics. People fear power. They love us now, but the afterglow will dim. They’ll question us eventually. It will make them feel better—and save us a lot of drama and wasted time—if they can point to someone who keeps track of us as soon as any questions come up. Waller wants to be that person, direct control or not.”

“Because she cares that you guys might be dangerous?”

“Because being associated with us will help her finally put the Midway City scandal to rest. It’s been months, and some very powerful people are still questioning her role and whether or not she’s fit to lead her agency. If she can say she’s the one who convinced the League to agree to government oversight, people will stop questioning her leadership.”

Bruce leans back in his chair. “If Midway City hadn’t happened, then yeah, you’d be right. She probably wouldn’t agree to our terms. But right now, she’s got no choice. Not if she wants to keep her job.”

It’s a convincing argument. Bruce is a convincing guy—clearly very smart and very strategic. But Steve doesn’t care about Bruce’s opinion nearly as much as he cares about Diana’s.

He turns to look at her. He waits, wondering if she’ll turn around in response to a long silence, but she doesn’t move.

“Diana,” he calls softly.

She finally turns around. Her arms are folded over her chest. Her back is ramrod

straight, her shoulders set, and the expression on her face is completely blank. Steve has absolutely no idea what she’s thinking or how she’s feeling. She’s impossible to read.

“How do you feel about all this?” he asks.

She glances down at the floor. “Bruce is right. If we don’t agree to let A.R.G.U.S. oversee the League, Waller will come after you. And even if we do agree, you will still be in danger. I spent the morning trying to come up with an alternative strategy.” She finally lifts her gaze, but she fixes it on Bruce. “I couldn’t.” She looks at Steve. “I think this is the only way.”

The difference between the woman standing before Steve now and the woman he spent the previous night with could not be more distinct. Last night, she was warm and open. She had been physically close to him but there was an emotional closeness too, an intimacy that he’d heard people talk about before but had never actually experienced himself until they’d traded _I love yous_ and fallen into bed. Now, he feels like there is a wall between them. He thinks if he stood up and closed the distance and touched her, she would flinch away from him.

Panic claws at his throat. How could he lose her so fast? How could he—

_I love you. I love you, Steve. I will always love you._

He takes a deep breath. He isn’t losing her. She’s not slipping away. She’s just trying to get ahold of the situation the only way she knows how—by drawing back into herself and weathering the storm. She is not the woman from last night because last night they were whispering in the dark and laughing and making love. Now they are across from each other in the harsh light of an underground cave, trying to figure out how to survive against a psychopath.

And that’s when he realizes that last night, they were also alone. Right now, they are not.

He turns immediately to Bruce. “Can you give us a minute?”

If Bruce is offended or hurt by the question, he doesn’t show it. He nods. “Of course.”

Steve waits until Bruce disappears down the stairs to the first floor of the Batcave. When he looks at Diana again, she is not looking at him. He gets to his feet. “Diana,” he calls.

She looks at him.

He gives her what he hopes is a disarming smile and slides his hands into his pockets. “You hate this, don’t you?”

The change is small, but immediate. Her shoulders drop and round forward. She bows her head and closes her eyes, and two faint lines appear between her eyebrows. “Of course I hate it,” she whispers, and he can hear it all in her voice, every single feeling that she was keeping back before.

He crosses the room, and when he’s close enough she leans forward and buries her face in the curve of his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her. Her arms are still folded between them but it doesn’t matter because she is nuzzling into his neck, her breath warm on his skin, and he holds her tighter.

After a long moment, he’s the one who leans back. “Do you think I could handle it?”

She unfolds her arms and fusses with the collar of his shirt. “I think you’re the only person who could.”

“It would be nice to work together again.”

“Yes.”

“But you hate it.”

She looks up at him. “I hate anything that could take you from me.”

His heart twists in his chest. “I could say no.”

She shakes her head. “No you couldn’t.”

“I could—”

“You’re a soldier,” she cuts him off, her voice firm. “You would never be happy sitting in Paris, waiting for me to come back from missions. You would be miserable.”

She’s right. But there is so much darkness lurking in her eyes, so much pain, and all he can think about is her voice last night when she told him what it was like to go on living while everyone around her died and left her alone. He didn’t know how to ease her pain then, but maybe now he does.

He palms the small of her back. “If it’s a choice between this and being with you—”

“It’s not,” she interrupts softly.

He looks up at her in surprise.

She drapes her arms over his shoulders, around his neck. “You’re a fighter, Steve. You fight for what’s good. It’s why you stole Maru’s notebook and ended up on my island. It’s why you got on that plane. It’s who you are.” She shakes her head. “I won’t ask you to sacrifice who you are to be with me.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promises.

Anguish shivers over her face. “I know you will.”

He holds her closer. “Diana…”

She kisses him, her hands on either side of his face. He tries to pour everything he’s feeling into the kiss, tries to make her understand that the last thing he wants is to be another ghost that haunts her, but it doesn’t feel like enough. He wishes he could give her more than a promise.  

She pulls away. She leans back and raps her knuckles against the glass wall. It takes a moment for Steve to recognize that she’s letting Bruce know that he can come back upstairs. When he realizes it, he tries to step away from her and put some space between them. She catches his hand, weaves their fingers together, and pulls him back to her side, their shoulders pressing together.  

Steve looks over at her in surprise. Diana returns his gaze, her face set in certainty. She turns her body toward him, and smoothes her other hand along the back of his, so that she is holding his hand in both of hers when Bruce appears again.

Bruce does not look down at their hands. There is a polite smile spread over his lips. Steve isn’t fooled.

“So?” Bruce asks.

“I’m in,” Steve says.

Diana squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

“Great,” Bruce says, smiling wider. “I’ll call the League and ask them to meet us tonight. In the meantime, I’ve got some files that I think you should—”

“No,” Diana interrupts.

Both Steve and Bruce look at her in surprise.

“He’ll meet with the League tonight,” she says. Her eyes are fixed on Bruce. “But he won’t spend all day reading files in a cave.”

Bruce’s smile fades. “We’ll have to put this to a vote, Diana,” he says. “If the other members of the League don’t agree that he’s—”

“They’ll agree,” she interrupts again. “And they’ll do it based on who he is and whether or not they think they can trust him. Reading your collection of files cannot help him with the League. You know that.”

Diana and Bruce stare each other down. Steve glances between them. He wonders if, during their not-quite-casual romance, they ever fought. They’re both so strong-willed that he’s certain they must have. Diana is far more soft spoken than she was in 1918, but she’s no more a pushover now than she was then. Bruce, meanwhile, seems to be constantly simmering close to volcanic anger. If Steve was a betting man, he’d bet that their fights were the kind of spectacularly passionate ones that ended either with slamming doors or equally passionate sex.

_Mostly physical_ , she’d said. She hadn’t said passionate, but she didn’t have to. Steve had seen it in the way Bruce had reached for her yesterday in the Batcave. He can sense it now, thrumming in the air with their disagreement.

Diana’s hands are soft against his, her chest brushing against his shoulder, and Steve feels immediately ashamed. She had gone out of her way just now to remind him that she had made her choice, and she did not regret it. Yet here he is, jealous and imagining all the ways that she had once belonged to someone else.

He’s never been a particularly jealous guy. But he’s never loved someone like her, either. If he’s going to spend the rest of forever with her, he’s really going to have to learn to get over himself.

Steve glances between Diana and Bruce once more. They are still staring each other down. One of them will have to give in. He watches as Diana tilts her head and looks up at Bruce from under her long eyelashes. She does not let go of Steve’s hand, but for a moment it’s as if Steve isn’t even there.

“He’ll belong to the League soon enough, Bruce,” she murmurs. “Let me have today.”

Her voice is soft and gorgeous and Steve watches its effect with unsurprised but fascinated wonder. Bruce’s expression visibly softens. He nods.

“I’ll call them. We’ll meet here at seven.”

He turns away from them and heads toward the elevator. When he’s gone, Diana presses her body against Steve’s arm and brushes a kiss along his jaw.

“What do you say?” she murmurs low in his ear. “You want to spend the day with me?”

_Today and every day,_ he thinks.

He smiles at her. “Yes.”


	15. Fifteen

When Diana decided that she and Steve were going to spend the day together, she did not have a plan. There wasn’t anything specific that she wanted to do with him, and no place in particular that she thought they should go. She only knew that she didn’t want him buried in the Batcave all day, reading files and listening to lectures from Bruce. Someday—sooner rather than later—he will have to do just that. He has a long, difficult road ahead of him, and much to learn about many things. But there is no need to rush into it. Especially when the League hasn’t even voted yet.

Bruce may be uncertain about how the other members of the League will react to Steve, but Diana is not. They will love him. They will see his goodness, and his courage, and they will put their trust in him as she did. By tomorrow morning he will be a spy again, back in the middle of a multifaceted war.

And so today, she intends to show him what people do when there is no war.

She starts by borrowing the keys to one of Bruce’s cars. When they get out to the unattached garage and the door glides open before them, Steve stops dead in his tracks.

“Whoa,” he says. “These definitely aren’t like the car we drove before.”

She smiles at him and then heads for the silver Porsche. “I would offer to let you drive,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder, “but I don’t want to.”

He looks up at her. “Why not?”

“You’ll see.”

Ten minutes later they’re driving way too fast down a country road that leads into the city. The engine is purring. Trees are flying by in blurs of brown and green. Diana shifts into a different gear and guides the car smoothly around a curve. She glances at Steve.

“I see now,” he murmurs, his eyes wide as he stares out the windshield.

She smiles. He looks over at her. She shifts gears again. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him glance down at her hand on the gear stick, and then trail his gaze up her body until he gets to her face. She smirks at him knowingly.

“What?” he asks.

“The look on your face.”

He gathers his eyebrows. “What do I look like?”

“Like you want me to pull the car over so you can bend me over the hood.”

His mouth drops open, his eyes wide as dinner plates, and she can’t help but grin. He may have spent last night memorizing every inch of her skin but he is still a man from the past. He is not accustomed to hearing a woman speak so casually and so bluntly about sex. She is not worried that he will disapprove. She’s scandalized him since the moment they met. She doesn’t intend to stop now.

He pulls at the collar of his shirt. “Is that, uh...is that an option?” he asks.

His eyes flutter back down to her hand. She runs her fingers lightly down the gear stick and then back up and lets the question hang in the air just a little too long. “Not right now,” she finally says. “Maybe later.”

He clears his throat and closes his eyes. “The White Sox won the 1917 World Series over the New York Giants,” he mutters under his breath.

“Steve?” she asks.

He holds up a hand. “Don’t. I can’t hear your voice. Or look at you. Just...just drive.”

She laughs.

By the time she pulls the car up along the curb and shifts it into park, he seems to have calmed down. They both climb out and a valet jogs toward them.

“Where are we?” Steve asks, eyeing the building they stopped in front of.

“The West Egg,” she tells him, holding the keys out to the valet and ignoring his less than subtle once-over of her body.

Steve turns to look at her. “What’s at The West Egg?”

She moves around the hood of the car, steps up onto the sidewalk, and weaves her fingers through his. “Breakfast. And maybe a newspaper if we’re lucky.”

There is, as it turns out, exactly one newspaper inside The West Egg, which is an all-day-breakfast hipster cafe that Diana has been to before with Lois. The waitress leaves the newspaper on the corner of their table at Diana’s request, but neither she nor Steve reach for it. He’s too fascinated by the sheer volume of food on the menu, and then by the items he’s never heard of. She laughs at the look on his face when she explains egg whites.

“It’s an egg,” he says. “That’s about as healthy as it gets.”

“Well,” she says, curling her fingers around her mug of tea, “not everyone agrees. I think it’s more about lower cholesterol than overall health.”

He crinkles his nose. “I grew up eating eggs and I turned out just fine.”

“You certainly did,” she hums suggestively into her mug.

He brandishes a spoon in her direction. “Don’t start with me.”

She smiles and sips her tea. The waitress reappears, and they place their orders. A comfortable moment of silence envelops them after. Diana feels no need to fill it. She watches as Steve stacks the tiny cups of creamer that were sitting on the table. He glances up at her, and she smiles. He smiles back. They must look ridiculous, smiling at each other over a miniature tower of creamers like a pair of lovesick teenagers. She doesn’t care.

He puts his elbows on the table. “Listen,” he says, leaning toward her, his voice low. “I don’t want to turn the mood too serious or anything...” He frowns. “Saying I don’t want to do that probably does exactly that, doesn’t it?”

She smiles. “Probably.”

He fixes her with a scrutinizing look, his head tilted slightly to the side. “I’m a spy,” he says, and it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than to her. “We’re, by and large, a pretty smooth group of guys.”

“Mhmm,” she says.

“Articulate,” he continues. “Adaptable. Unruffled. Very charming.”

She nods. “I seem to remember being told it takes a certain amount of vigor.”

He blinks for a moment, and then points at her. “See? That. That right there.”

“What?”

“Are you ever just, I don’t know, _not_ you?”

“What do you mean, not me?”

“I mean, you’re always so damn composed. I said that to you a hundred years ago and here you are, not only able to remember it but clever enough to tease me with it, and I don’t know if I can keep up with that. And I’m a _spy_. We can keep up with _everyone_.”

A response leaps immediately to her lips, but she pauses. If she says it, it’s going to prove his point. She says it anyway.

“You shouldn’t worry about that,” she tells him. “You’ve already proved you can keep up, remember?”

“God,” he groans, scrubbing his hands down his face. He looks around the restaurant, as if to check to see if anyone is listening, but nobody is paying them any attention. He leans over the table anyway. “You make me feel like I’m not a spy,” he tells her quietly. “Stuttering over myself like some kind of kid, trying not to think about the next time I get to take your clothes off.”

His face flushes as he says the last part. Diana is a little shocked that he said it at all, given how shy he is about physicality when they’re anywhere but behind closed doors and alone.

“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to contain a smile.

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m really not.”

They are grinning at each other again. Diana can’t remember the last time she felt so light. Maybe never.

“None of that is what I wanted to say,” Steve says, laughing a little at himself as he leans back in his chair.

“What did you want to say?”

He fiddles with a creamer. “Thank you.” It seems to be an effort for him to meet her gaze, but he does. “For what you did with Bruce.”

She folds her arms on the table. “You mean saving you from hours of reading files and listening to lectures?”

“That too,” he says, laughing. “He seems like a guy who likes to lecture.”

“He’s been known to hold court occasionally,” she says noncommittally.

He chuckles again. He turns the creamer over in his hand. “What I meant was thank you for grabbing my hand when you did. It was kind of you to…to not make it...”

_Stuttering over myself_ , he’d told her. She sees it now. She wants to lean over the table and kiss the words right out of him.

“I’m not trying to rub anything in his face,” he finally says. “But I appreciate that you aren’t embarrassed of me. Of us. That you’re not second guessing it. And just so you know, I’m working on not being jealous every time the three of us are in a room.”

That catches her off guard. “You’re that jealous?” she asks in surprise.

He looks up at her, also surprised. “You had to know that. Last night, when I asked you about him, you knew.”

“Because we were already talking about it. I didn’t think it was a constant state.”

“I wouldn’t say _constant_ ,” he says. “But he’s clearly in love with you. And I clearly interrupted more than just…”

_Sex_. He doesn’t say it.

“Something casual,” he says instead. “For both of you.”

He is still fidgeting with the creamer. She reaches out over the table and covers his hands with hers. He looks up at her.

“I chose you, Steve.”

He nods. “I know that. You just have to be patient with me. Us mere mortals tend to be volatile and petty.” He gives her a crooked smile. “I’m sure jealousy seems very trivial to a goddess.”

She smiles. “You really don’t know anything about Greek mythology.”

He laughs. She likes his laugh.

She grazes her fingertips across the back of his hand. “I’ve been jealous before.”

“When?”

She knows exactly what she wants to tell him, but she hesitates for some reason. Maybe because even though she can feel his skin beneath her fingertips, she still can’t believe he’s back. She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, to wake up and find that it’s all nothing more than an intricate nightmare.

Tonight he will meet the League. Eventually he will work for Waller. The fear of losing him again is like a vise around her heart, squeezing tighter all the time. Letting herself remember how much she missed him will only make her more afraid.

“I thought I saw you once,” she tells him quietly, determined to defy her fear. “In Buenos Aires, of all places. He was wearing a bomber jacket. Same hair, same smile. He had his arm around a beautiful girl, and when he kissed her I was so jealous that I accidentally shattered the mug I was holding.”

She can still remember the shards of the mug in her hand, the tea hot on her skin even though it couldn’t burn her. She can still remember the sharp stab of envy in her stomach, the indignation and the pain. A moment later, when she’d realized it couldn’t be him because he was dead, the grief had been overwhelming.

She lifts her gaze to his. Steve is staring at her, his entire body still. “Really?” he says.

“Really.”

He shakes his head and leans forward, his chest pressed against the side of the table. “Diana, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you.”

“You’re here now,” she tells him, squeezing his hand. She says it for her sake as much as for his.

He nods. “What were you doing in Buenos Aires?”

Diana takes a deep breath. She hadn’t meant for this to come up. But she won’t put him off.

“After Etta died, I left London.” There is an immediate flash of grief across his face. “She was the last of the group to go, and I couldn’t stay in the city anymore. It was filled with too many ghosts. So I spent a decade traveling the world. And I spent a winter in Buenos Aires.”

Silence hangs over their table.

“How did she die?” he asks quietly.

“In her sleep. Peacefully.”

“And the others?”

She tells him. He does not look at her while she talks. She holds his hands, stroking her thumb comfortingly across his skin. She has just finished when the waitress brings their food. Diana lets go of his hands reluctantly. She smiles at the waitress and thanks her. Steve stares at his food blankly.

“Tell me about them,” Diana says quietly.

He looks up at her.

“How you met,” she clarifies. “And your adventures.” She smiles. “They told me many stories about you. I’d like to know whether your exploits were exaggerated.”

The hint of a smile tugs on his lips. “Some were probably exaggerated,” he admits. “But not all of them. I’m sure you recall that I’m well above average.”

“I do,” she says. The smile breaks fully across his face at last, a wide and brilliant thing that sends her heart pounding in her chest.

Even once they are done with their food and the waitress has cleared their plates they linger, trading story after story about Etta and the boys, laughing. It’s been a long time since Diana has talked about any of them, and Steve seems to relish the opportunity to tell her about his adventures before he met her.

During a brief lull in the conversation, Diana’s phone buzzes on the table. It’s not the first time it’s gone off, but she’s been ignoring it. She glances at the screen this time and sees that it’s Lois. She’s fairly certain she knows what the text says, even though she hasn’t read it. She smirks.

“Who is it?” Steve asks.

“Lois,” Diana answers.

“Why are you smirking?”

“Because I know what she wants.”

Steve frowns. “What’s she want?’

Diana reaches for her phone, opens the text, and reads it. _If you don’t send me a picture of that man ASAP I’m going to have Clark fly me to Gotham so I can see him for myself. And don’t think I won’t do it._

She holds her phone out to Steve. He takes it gingerly, as though he’s afraid he might break it. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s a text message,” she answers. “Like an email, only shorter. And it goes to your phone instead of your email address. My messages are in blue, and hers are in gray.”

Steve reads the messages, then looks up at her. “Am I ‘that man’?”

“Yes.”

“And she wants a picture of me because…?”

“Because she is curious about what you look like.”

He smirks at her. “You mean she wants to know if I’m good looking.”

Diana smiles. “Yes.”

He looks down at her phone. “Can you take a picture on your phone?”

“Yes. Or a video.”

He turns the phone over in his hand and studies the back of it. “And you can Google.”

“You can do a lot on a phone these days,” she acknowledges.

He looks up at her. “I’ll have to get one eventually, right?”

She shrugs. “We can go get you one right now if you want.”

His eyes widen a little. “Am I ready for that?”

“You’re a spy,” she tells him, getting to her feet. “Aren’t you always ready for everything?”

“Everything except goddesses,” he tells her, smiling goofily.

Warmth unfurls in Diana’s chest. Hera help her, she is crazy about this man. She bends toward him, puts her hands on either side of his face, and kisses him right in the middle of the hipster breakfast cafe in Gotham with the newspaper still sitting on the corner of their table.

It’s not what she imagined, back when they danced in the snow and he told her what people do when there is no war.

It’s better.

* * *

 “So you’re telling me this thing,” Steve says, holding up a brand new iPhone and pointing at the small round home button, “can scan my thumbprint?”

“Yep,” says the eternally patient, bearded Apple Store employee named Jerry who has been helping them for the past hour and a half. “Any of your fingerprints, really.”

“So if it’s not _my_ thumbprint...” Steve starts.

“Then your phone stays locked,” Jerry says. “Unless you put in the correct numerical code.”

“Wow,” Steve says.

“Yep,” Jerry agrees. He gestures at the phone. “So do you want to scan your fingerprints in now? You can do it later if you want. It’s just asking you as part of your phone setup.”

Steve looks up from the phone at Jerry, and then glances at Diana. His eyebrows are furrowed. He leans closer to her. “If I were knocked unconscious,” he murmurs to her in a low voice, “someone could use my fingerprint to open my phone and I wouldn’t even know.”

Diana tries to contain a smile. She looks up at Jerry, who is glancing around the store politely and waiting for their hushed conversation to finish. This isn’t the first time Steve has whispered a question to her.

“That’s true,” she tells Steve.

“Do you have the thumbprint thing on yours?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s rather difficult to knock me unconscious.”

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement. He studies the phone. “I’m going to stick with the code,” he announces to Jerry.

“Okay,” Jerry says. “Just hit the screen right there. Okay, now this screen is asking you…”

Diana sips her Starbucks and lets Jerry’s voice fade as her mind wanders. She tries to decide if she has ever been more quintessentially American than she is now, sipping from a white Starbucks cup in an Apple Store in the middle of a sprawling shopping mall. Probably not. She doesn’t even really like Starbucks. But Steve is very fond of coffee, and when they’d come across the shop right after she led him through the automatic doors and into the mall, he’d been curious. So she ushered him into the line, and explained all the different variations of coffee he could choose, and tried to ignore the affectionate clench of her heart when he ended up ordering just a plain black coffee.

He’s curious about almost everything. On their way to the Apple Store she had fielded questions about a fragrance and cosmetics store (“I can smell them all the way out here. Do you smell that? How do people go in there and still breathe?”), the eyebrow threading salon (“Wait, so women actually _pay_ to have someone run a string through their eyebrows? Doesn’t that _hurt_?”), a small store that sells only hats (“Are all those hats forty dollars too?”), and another store that sells only sunglasses (“It’s not even sunny outside. How do they stay in business?”).

Diana enjoys his curiosity far more than she probably should. Maybe it’s because she remembers what it was like to have a million questions. Maybe it’s because she likes the way his eyes seem to appear their bluest when he’s studying something in wonder. Maybe it’s just because he hovers close to her when he asks questions, and she has spent so long missing the physical presence of him, the sound of his voice and the way he smells, that she’s grateful for any opportunity to lean into him and touch him and remind herself that he’s real.

When Steve’s phone is set up at last, he and Diana thank Jerry profusely and head back out into the mall. Diana asks him if he’d like to sit somewhere and play with his new phone, but he shakes his head and reaches for her hand. (Hand holding, she’s noticed, is just about the only public display of affection that doesn’t make his face turn pink with embarrassment.)

“No,” he says, smiling at her. “Let’s walk.”

So they do. They wander through the mall hand in hand, stopping in front of windows and ducking into the occasional store. He asks a thousand questions, and she answers them all. They’ve passed almost every store in the mall when they come across a lingerie shop.

At first, Diana doesn’t think anything of it. It’s not until Steve’s steps hitch next to hers, and she looks over and sees the wide-eyed look on his face, that she realizes how shocking a place like this must be for a man from the past.

Diana slows to a stop in front of the display window. Steve gapes at the mannequins, which are wearing various colors of lacy lingerie.

“Can they sell that stuff right out in the open like that?” he asks, turning his gaze to her.

“Yes,” she laughs.

He turns back to the window. “And that’s...I mean, that’s what women wear now? Underneath...everything?”

“Sometimes,” she answers.

She watches him. He seems to be most fascinated by the black set in the middle—the one with the garter belt and stockings, and the bra with a lace overlay.

“Do you…” He clears his throat. “Have you worn things like this before?”

“Yes.”

He swallows and turns his head slowly to look at her. She wonders briefly if he’s thinking about who she might have worn something like this for. But when their eyes meet, all she sees there is want.

“Are you wearing them now?”

“Not at the moment.” She tilts her head. “But I can sometime. If you’d like.”

Zeus, the look on his face. Desire drills down her spine. She understands suddenly why people say things like _He made me weak in the knees_.

“You have them with you?” he asks. His voice is low, almost hoarse. “Back at the house?”

“Mine are in Paris,” she says. “But if you like one of these, we can go in and—”

“No,” he cuts her off. “Nope. No.”

She smirks at him. “Why not?”

“I’m a man,” he says, glancing around. “I can’t just go in a store like that.”

Diana looks past him and toward the entryway of the store. Steve follows her gaze in time to see a man and a woman walk inside hand in hand. When Steve looks back at her, Diana lifts her eyebrows.

“No,” he says emphatically.

She lifts her shoulder in a shrug. “If you don’t want me to wear them for you, then I won’t.” She glances at the black lace set in the window. “But I do think I’d wear the black one quite nicely.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” he groans at her, dropping her hand to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes as though he can rid himself of the mental image. “The White Sox won the 1917 World Series over the New York Giants—”

“Steve,” she cuts him off, laughing and pulling his hands down from his face. “Stop reciting baseball stats. It won’t help you because I am not going to change the subject.”

He glowers at her. She steps closer to him. He tries to step away from her, glancing around at the people passing them by, but she catches the lapels of his coat and holds him in place.

“You should kiss me and then take me in that store,” she tells him, just so she can see him blush.

He does. It’s adorable. “You’re mean.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Such a tease.”

“It’s only teasing if I don’t follow through,” she points out. “Which I have every intention of doing. _If_ you go in the store.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then people will know.”

“Know what?” she asks, laughing again. “That you and I are sleeping together?”

“ _Diana_ ,” he hisses, glancing around them.

“There are plenty of other couples in this building who are sleeping together, Steve. And really, don’t you think you’re acting just a little bit absurd given some of the things you said to me last night?”

He flushes. “I didn’t—”

“You absolutely did,” she cuts him off. “You told me that when I—”

Steve smacks his hand over her mouth before she can finish. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, looking around them wildly. An older couple walks by, and the woman stares openly at Steve’s hand on Diana’s mouth. Steve drops his hand immediately and nods at her.

Diana grins at him. She’s enjoying this way more than she should. “I’m fairly certain that’s exactly what you said when I did it,” she tells him.

“That was in _private_ ,” Steve hisses. “Not in the middle of a...a...what the hell is this place called again?”

“A mall.”

“A mall,” he echoes. “Which, for the record, is a _public_ place. I’m pretty sure public indecency is still a thing.” He frowns. “Right?”

“Yes. But all we are doing is talking, and despite your obvious paranoia, no one is listening to our conversation. I am not asking you to make love to me against this window, Steve. I am asking you to go into a store.”

“Why can’t you just go in without me?”

“Because I want you to pick out what you want me to wear.”

“I pick that one,” he says, nodding quickly at the black set. “There. Done.”

“So you only want one?” she asks innocently. “Why not get a few? We could have one for every day of the week.”

He gapes at her and makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“Besides,” she adds, “even if I do go in alone, I’m going to come out with one of those bags.” She nods at a woman walking by with a bright pink bag. “And then you will have to walk next to me as I carry it.”

“What the hell,” Steve sighs, staring at the bag. “That is the least discreet thing I have ever seen.”

“I think that’s kind of the point,” she tells him. He looks back at her. She shakes her head at him. “How are you brave enough to waltz into an enemy camp in the middle of a war and steal something from a mass murderer but you aren’t brave enough to do this?”

She can see it immediately—the spark in his eye that says he has taken her question as a dare, and now he’s going to do what she’s asking just to prove that he can. It’s exactly what she expected from him. She arches an eyebrow at him for good measure, giving him a smug look that says _I bet you won’t_.

Steve takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and then grabs her hand and pulls her into the store.

A considerable amount of time later, Diana leaves the store with a bag in one hand and Steve’s hand in the other. Steve’s face is a similar shade of pink as the bag, but as they stroll away from the store the color fades and his lips begin to stretch into a grin.

“What are you grinning at?” Diana asks him.

“Nothing,” he says. He whistles nonchalantly.

Diana has a feeling she’s going to find out what _nothing_ is when they go to bed tonight.

Or maybe on the hood of the Porsche in a secluded spot on the way home if they can’t wait that long.

Suddenly, he’s not the only one who is grinning.

* * *

 Five minutes before 7:00, as Diana is parking Bruce’s Porsche in his garage, her phone buzzes. She pulls it from her coat pocket as she gets out of the car.

It’s Barry. _You guys close? Everyone is here and if Bruce frowns at his watch any harder his head might explode._

Diana smiles and types out a response. _Be down in five._

The reply is immediate. _Hurry. He might kill Arthur before you get here._ Three dots hover on the screen, and then: _Or me._

Diana smiles again and slips her phone into her pocket. When she looks up, Steve is

watching her over the roof of the car.

“Is it Bruce?” he asks. “We’re almost late.”

“It’s Barry,” she answers. She shuts her door and makes her way around the car toward him. “And we’ve got plenty of time.”

He smiles. “My combat instructor at boot camp used to say ‘Early is on time and on time is late’. And I think we’re too late to be early.”

“We’ll get there when we get there,” she says, stopping in front of him. “I’ve waited on them plenty of times.”

Steve nods. He looks over her shoulder in the direction of the house, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. Diana can feel the nervous energy radiating off of his body. His shoulders are set and tense, and he is leaning forward on the balls of his feet as if he’s ready to break into a sprint.

She reaches for him, smoothing her hands along his chest and then tugging on the lapels of his coat. It’s not the leather coat she insisted looked good on him despite his complaints that it was shiny—it’s the other coat she’d bought him, a long and dark gray woolen trench that hangs off his shoulders like it was tailored for him. _He’s very handsome_ , she thinks absently, eyeing the stubble that’s on his cheeks.

“Are you nervous?” she asks him quietly.

He meets her gaze, and crooks the corner of his mouth upward. “Nah. They can’t be any scarier than your mother and her gang of frowny Amazons, right?”

She smiles. “Right.”

His smile flickers just a little. “Anything I should know?” he asks.

She thinks it over. “You won’t be able to charm them,” she tells him. “So don’t try. Don’t be Captain Trevor, dashing spy. Just be Steve. Direct and straightforward. And don’t be afraid to laugh. They like to tease each other. Endlessly.”

He nods. “Who should I be most concerned with impressing? I mean, who’s the hardest of you guys to win over?”

“Bruce and I,” she answers. “But this is Bruce’s idea, and I’m in love with you. So,” she shrugs a little, “you’re already off to a better start than most.”

It’s a testament to his nervousness that he does not react to how casually she says _I’m in love with you_. Every other time she has said something along those lines, he has looked dazed.

“Tell me about the others,” he says.

“You already know Barry. And he loves you. But you should expect that when we get in there, he’ll be a little more reserved with you than usual. At least at first.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because when we’re all together and discussing something important, he tries to be more serious. It doesn’t typically last very long,” she admits with a smile. “But he’ll try.”

“Who else will be there?”

“Vic. Cyborg. He’s around the same age as Barry. He will probably look very odd to you since you’re still learning about modern technology.”

Steve nods. “I saw him in some YouTube videos. He’s mostly metallic, right?”

“Yes. And he’s very self conscious about it, so don’t stare. Always look him in the eye.”

“What’s he like? Personality wise?”

Diana slides her hands into the pockets of her coat as she tries to find the right words. “He’s a genius,” she finally says. “And he has a good heart. He’ll recognize your talent and your goodness and he’ll respect them both. But he is not as open and trusting as Barry. He will need time to warm up to you. Treat him like you would have treated Sameer and the boys. Accept him for who he is, and he will accept you.”

“Who else?”

“Clark,” she says. “Superman. You may also hear us refer to him as Kal. He is from Krypton, which is a planet that no longer exists. He came here as a baby, and was raised on a farm in Kansas.” She smiles. “He’s what Americans tend to call ‘salt of the earth’.”

“Good guy?” Steve says with a smile.

“The best,” she says, matching his smile. “His powers are extraordinary, but personally what I find most admirable about him is his kindness. I think you’ll notice that he and Bruce tend to balance each other out. Not that Bruce _isn’t_ kind—he is. He just expresses it differently than Clark does.”

“Wait,” Steve says, his eyebrows furrowed. “When Bruce and Barry were fighting, Barry said something about Bruce hating Clark’s powers? And killing him?”

“That is a very long story that I am more than happy to tell you later,” Diana says. “But knowing it won’t help you with what you’re about to do. All you need to know is that Bruce and Clark have not always gotten along, and that when Doomsday killed Clark, Bruce felt responsible. He still does, despite Clark’s return and the fact that they’re now friends.”  

“Bruce seems to feel responsible for a whole lot of things,” Steve observes.

The compassion in his eyes makes Diana lean toward him. “Yes,” she says quietly. “He is a man who must always have a purpose, and his chosen purpose often requires him to be self-sacrificial. Much like someone else I know.”

Steve smiles. “Guess you’ve got a type then, huh?”

Diana lifts her shoulder. “Perhaps.”

“One more, right?” he says, hunching toward her against the chill. “Six in all?”

They’re standing very close, the white clouds of their breath mingling between them in the frigid air of the garage, but they are not touching. Diana _wants_ to touch him, but she can see how important it is for him to feel prepared, and she does not want to distract him.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Arthur is the last. Aquaman.”

Steve waits for her to finish, but she does not. She’s trying to figure out how to explain who Arthur is, and why he will likely be the most difficult to persuade.

Steve seems to realize why she’s hesitating. “You don’t think he’ll be as open to me as the others will.”

She sighs. “Arthur is a bit of a wild card. It’s hard to predict how he’ll react in any given situation. He and Bruce don’t always get along. Because this is Bruce’s plan, I think he may view you with a bit of suspicion. Barry could help with that. Or hurt. It just depends.”

“Barry?”

Diana nods. “Arthur and Barry have an interesting sort of bond. Vic as well.”

“They’re all friends?”

“It’s more like Vic and Barry are friends, and Arthur is the cool older kid who prods them into breaking the rules and stirring up trouble. The three of them tease each other incessantly, but there is a very deep affection there too.”

“So Arthur, Vic, and Barry are close. And you and Clark are close.”

Diana smiles. “Clark is a very dear friend, yes. We have a lot in common.”

Steve grins. “So that makes Bruce, what, the grumpy dad who manages you all?”

“Something like that,” Diana says, smiling at a memory of Bruce trying to corral them all at their last team meeting.

Steve’s grin fades a little. “How do I connect with Arthur?” he asks.

“Just be you. And don’t take anything personally. He’s going to ask a lot of questions, and they’re probably going to come off slightly aggressive. Answer them honestly and stay calm.”

He nods and looks back over her shoulder at the house. “Okay. I can do that.”

Diana trails her gaze over his face: the strong angle of his jaw, his bright eyes, the shock of hair hanging over his forehead. Of all the men she’s ever met, she’s certain that Steve is the most capable of winning over the League and proving himself to be a trustworthy liaison. She is a little biased in his favor for obvious reasons. But even when she sets aside her romantic feelings, she still believes that he’s the only person that could do this and do it well.

Steve meets her eyes again. He smiles, and her heart skips a beat in her chest. “You ready?” he asks.

She smiles. “Whenever you are.”


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder: The Justice League movie isn’t actually out yet, so I’m writing the relationships as I’d like to see them done—which may or may not end up matching what eventually comes out on screen. Also I’m staking my claim now on artistic license. If it isn’t 100% canon compliant, that’s okay with me.

By the time the elevator comes to a stop in the Batcave, Steve is in spy mode. He feels as though his blood is crackling with electricity, his body pulsing with the thrill of a new assignment. He follows Diana down the corridor and toward the main room and mentally recites what he needs to remember. _Look Vic in the eye, don’t come on too strong. Clark is like Diana—pure and good_ — _so treat him as you’d treat her. Arthur will respond to calm confidence. Barry will be reserved. Bruce is in charge._

When they step into the room, the first thing Steve notices is that there is a large circular table that wasn’t there before. Each of the League members is seated in a black chair around the table with the exception of Bruce. There are two empty chairs on Bruce’s right.

Their entrance is immediately noticed, and Steve’s brain registers a few things in rapid succession as they make their way toward the table.

First: The eyes of every single League member linger on Diana before they even glance his way. Bruce looks visibly relieved.

Second: Vic is even more remarkable looking than he expected. Half of his face is plated with metal, one of his eyes gleams red, and there is a blue light shining in the middle of his forehead. His entire body seems to be made of glimmering mechanics.

Third: Arthur is the first to rise from his seat, and he is _massive_. Leaning against the table next to him is a fearsome looking trident.

Fourth: Barry is grinning at him like a kid who has just seen Santa Claus. When they make eye contact he waves, and then seems to realize what he’s doing and shoves his hand under the table.

“Diana,” Arthur booms. His hair is long, hanging down to his shoulders. He folds his arms over his barrel-like chest and grins. “I think Bruce was worried you wouldn’t show.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Bruce says, looking annoyed.

“You looked worried,” Arthur responds.

The two men stare at each other. Steve watches Clark glance between them with faint amusement.

“I’m sure no one was worried,” Diana says. She brushes a hand along Bruce’s back as she walks past him, and suddenly Bruce’s shoulders look just a little less tense. Diana continues around the table toward Arthur, but Steve stops near Bruce.

“Hello, Arthur,” Diana says. “I’ve missed you.”

Arthur grins. “I’m an easy guy to miss.”

Diana rises on her toes and kisses Arthur on his cheek. He rests his large hands on Diana’s waist and dips forward to kiss her just below her ear. When she leans away from him, she is smiling.

“How is Mera?”

“Good,” he says.

“Good,” Diana echoes. She pats him on his muscled chest, and then continues around the table.

Barry grins at her when she walks by him, and Diana ruffles his hair affectionately as she passes. She puts a hand on Clark’s shoulder next, and he grins too.

“Didn’t think I’d get here without a passenger,” Clark says to her.

Diana smiles down at him. “She’s quite persistent.”

“I’m under strict orders not to come back without a picture.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Diana says, laughing. She stops next to Vic and smiles down at him. “Hello Vic.”

Cyborg gets to his feet. “Diana,” he greets. “It’s good to see you.”

Diana puts her hands on either side of Vic’s face. “I think I missed you the most,” she tells him. Arthur snorts from the other side of the table, but neither Vic nor Diana pay him any attention.

Vic bends forward and hugs her, his massive metallic arms curving gently around her. He says something to her in a voice that’s too low for Steve to hear. When Vic pulls away, they are both smiling.

Diana brushes her hand briefly along the metal half of Vic’s face. “I’m glad to hear it,” she says.

Vic’s resulting smile is shy but pleased. Steve glances quickly around the table. Every single member of the League is looking at Diana. _This is why Waller brought me back,_ he realizes. _Because she’s the one they all love._ He’d already known that. But it’s an entirely different thing to witness it firsthand.

Diana moves past Vic and stops behind the empty chair between Steve and Bruce. She looks at Steve, smiling, and suddenly every single person in the room is looking at him too.

_Here we go,_ he thinks.

“Who’s this guy?” Arthur asks.

“This is Captain Steve Trevor,” Diana says. “He’s the one who brought me into this world from Themyscira.”

“Wasn’t that...kind of a long time ago?” Vic asks in disbelief.

Arthur sizes Steve up from the other end of the table. “Looks pretty good for an old dude.”

“He’s not old,” Diana says, her voice tinged with amusement.

“So how’d he get here?” Arthur asks.

“Barry,” Diana answers simply.

Everyone turns to the speedster. Barry grins. “I ran one hundred years back in time, pulled him off an exploding plane, and ran him back here to the present.”

The entire table gapes at him in silence.

“You did _what_?” Arthur says.

Vic grins. “That’s badass.”

“Right?!” Barry says excitedly. He casts a glance at Bruce, and his smile fades a little. “I mean, it was kind of irresponsible,” he says. “Could’ve messed with the timeline.”

“Did it?” Arthur asks.

“No.”

Arthur shrugs and grins. “Then who cares?”

Bruce sighs from beside Steve. Vic leans forward and rests his metal arms on the table. “How fast do you have to run to make that work?”

“Well, I had to get—”

“Can _you_ run that fast?” Arthur interrupts to ask Clark.

Clark smiles. “I don’t know. I could try.” He looks at Barry, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe I could run further back.”

“Psh,” Barry says. “Yeah right.”

“He’s pretty fast,” Vic says, nodding at Clark.

Barry looks offended. “Guys. I’m the fastest man alive.”

“Clark ain’t a man,” Arthur says, dropping into his chair. “He’s an alien. So being faster than you doesn’t mean you aren’t still the fastest man alive.”

Barry sputters in disbelief.

“I’m sure we could settle this later,” Bruce says. “Maybe after the meeting. Right now, I’ve got a plan I’d like to run by you. We’ll need to vote on it.”

Arthur tips his chin at Steve. “Should he be here for this?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “He’s the centerpiece.”

Everyone is looking at Steve again.

“Let’s hear it then,” Arthur says, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head.

Diana sits in her chair, and Steve follows suit. Bruce remains standing. He begins with the event in Midway City, the Suicide Squad and their nano bombs, and Waller’s role behind the scenes. Next he explains how Waller manipulated Barry, the confrontation at the A.R.G.U.S. bunker, and Waller’s threats. Then he moves on to his plan—the benefits of working with A.R.G.U.S. instead of another agency, and the role of the liaison.

When Bruce announces that he thinks Steve would be the ideal liaison, the eyes of every League member turn in his direction. Bruce passes out a stack of folders, and when Steve flips his open he’s stunned to find that it’s a dossier on him—his military records, reviews from his superiors, reports written by himself and Etta about his missions. There are photos and exam records and evaluations and more information than Steve even knew existed.

When he looks up from the folder, the eyes of every League member are trained on him again. Bruce is explaining why he is a liability unless he becomes the liaison. Interestingly, Bruce does not mention anything about Steve and Diana’s romantic relationship—only that they worked together long ago, and that Waller wants to leverage their relationship for her own benefit.

Steve scans the table, holding eye contact with each of the League members just long enough to show that he is confident enough in his abilities to look them in the eye. And then he gets to Diana. She winks at him so slyly that if she wasn’t also smiling the tiniest bit, Steve wouldn’t be sure it had actually happened. His heart thumps in his chest. He is so far gone for her it’s almost embarrassing.

That’s when Bruce finishes his presentation. “Open to questions,” he says, planting his hands on the table and leaning forward

There is a brief moment of silence. Clark is the first to speak.

“If we made an agreement with the DOJ or Homeland Security instead of A.R.G.U.S., couldn’t they protect him from Waller?”

“We’d have to convince them Waller is a threat,” Bruce answers.

“She implanted nano bombs in people’s skulls,” Vic says. There’s barely controlled rage in his voice. “That shouldn’t be hard to do.”

“That’s classified intel,” Bruce counters. “And we can’t prove it. Like I said, people are asking questions about Midway City. About her. But she’s got powerful allies and benefactors, and we’ve got no proof. We can’t even prove she threatened Diana.”

“So let’s prove it,” Arthur says. “If she’s that dangerous, we should go after her.”

“I’d rather control her,” Bruce says. “There’s no telling who they’d put in her place. And if we go after her instead of taking advantage of this opportunity, we’re going to be playing defense instead of offense when it comes time to deal with the feds. This is our chance to make the rules.”

“Why do we have to deal with the feds at all?” Barry asks. “Why can’t we just keep doing what we’re doing? I mean, people _love_ us.” He grins. “I saw an action figure of myself in the store yesterday.”

“People love us now,” Clark says. “But take it from me, they won’t always. Bruce is right—if we willingly submit to oversight, we’ll get to maintain our independence. If we fight against it, it’ll only end badly.”

“You’re willing to submit to the U.S. government?” Arthur asks. His eyes are fixed on Diana.

“I’m willing to be transparent,” she answers. “We have nothing to hide, and thus no need to fear their gaze. I will work with them as long as we can maintain our independence. And as long as Steve is our representative.”

Diana’s approval seems to cast a hush over the conversation. Once again, Clark is the first to break it.

He looks at Steve. “You’re willing to work with Waller on our behalf?”

“Yes,” Steve answers.

“Why?” Arthur asks. It’s more of a demand than a question. Everyone glances in his direction. He holds up his folder and smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. This is impressive stuff.”

“Call me Steve. And thank you.”

Arthur drops the folder onto the table. “But I’ll be honest with you, it’s a little unsettling that you were a spy.”

“Why?” Barry asks.

Arthur smirks at the speedster. “How do you think they get their info, Barry? They lie to people. They pretend to be something they’re not.” He looks back at Steve. “I bet you’re a great liar.”

“An excellent one,” Steve acknowledges. “When you’re in the middle of a war, a good lie is the difference between life and death. If I weren’t good, I wouldn’t have stayed alive long enough to fill that folder.”

“But he lied for good reason,” Barry interjects. “He was an American soldier.”

“Which means he took orders,” Arthur says. “He did what he was told. Even if he’s our liaison, he’ll be working for Waller and for A.R.G.U.S. How do we know we can trust him? How do we know he won’t end up following orders again?”

“I trust him,” Bruce says.

“You trust him because she does,” Arthur retorts.

“I trust him because I did my research,” Bruce growls. “I wouldn’t be suggesting this to you if I hadn’t.”

“I trust him too,” Barry declares, rising to his feet.

Arthur stares up at Barry. “You trust everybody, kid.”

“Steve’s a good guy,” Barry insists. His voice sounds the same way it did just before he blew up at Bruce for being a hypocrite.

“Nobody’s saying he’s not a good guy,” Vic pipes up. Barry looks across the table with an expression of betrayal, but Vic holds his ground. “But we need to be cautious.”

“You already got played by Waller,” Arthur says to Barry. “How do you know this guy isn’t playing you too?”

Barry’s face is flushed with anger. Steve glances at Diana and notices that although her expression is blank, her jaw is set and her eyes are fixed on Barry. She doesn’t like that he’s upset. Arthur isn’t going to back down. Bruce looks more annoyed than usual.

Steve gets to his feet. “There’s an easy way to resolve all this.” The entire table looks in his direction. Steve looks down at Diana. “We should use the lasso.”

“No,” she says immediately.

“Why not?” Arthur asks, rising to his feet. “How else will we know?”

“You know because I’m telling you,” Diana says, standing too. Her voice is calm, but there is anger flashing in her eyes. “He fought by my side. I watched him sacrifice himself to save millions of lives. He is as much a hero as the rest of us.”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “I trust you, Diana. I really do.”

“Clearly not enough,” she says.

He shoots her a rueful smile. “You said we shouldn’t fear their gaze if we have nothing to hide. Why is it any different for him?”

“Diana,” Steve says quietly. “It’s okay.”

She glances over at him. Her eyes search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation, but Steve is sure about this and he knows that she can see it. She sighs and reaches for her hip.

Steve pushes his chair back, and then takes a few steps away from the table. Diana looks at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised in question. “Like the first time we met,” he says to her.

“I could bind your wrists,” she points out.

He shakes his head. “I’d rather not. Wrong set of memories for the current situation.”

Their gaze holds and he sees it in her eyes—the brief flicker of recognition, the memory of what happened the last time she had bound his wrists.

“Fine,” she says.

Steve lowers himself to his knees before her. Diana hesitates, the lasso gripped in her hand, and then she flicks her wrist and the golden cord wraps around his chest and pins his arms to his side. The heat is immediate, but not unpleasant. The other members of the League move forward and stand in a semicircle around him.

“Ask your questions,” Diana says to Arthur. Her voice isn’t angry, but it isn’t kind either.

Arthur notices. He gives her another brief smile, and then turns his eyes to Steve.

“Have you ever met Amanda Waller?”

“No.”

“Are you working with her?”

“No.”

“Are you working with anyone who might be considered an enemy of the League?”

“No.”

“Is there any reason that we should be suspicious of your intentions?”

“No.”

Barry looks smug. “I told you,” he says to Arthur.

“Diana said you sacrificed yourself to save millions,” Vic speaks up. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Steve looks him right in the eye. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

“Do you always do the right thing?” Arthur asks.

Steve smirks. “Do you?”

Arthur grins and glances at Diana. “Smartass.”

“You deserved that,” she shoots back.

“I do my best,” Steve says. He hadn’t meant to say anything else, but that’s not how the lasso works. “I’m not perfect. But doing what’s right matters to me. And when I fail, I try to fix it.”

Steve scans the faces that are staring down at him. Barry looks proud and so, inexplicably, does Clark. Bruce looks vindicated. Vic and Arthur are still sporting mildly suspicious expressions. Steve won’t let himself look at Diana. He’s afraid he’ll blurt out something about how beautiful she is.

“What would you say your weakness is?” Arthur asks.

“Pride,” Steve says immediately. “I don’t like to lose. I like to be the best. Sometimes it makes me reckless.”

“You’re in good company,” Bruce says, glancing at Arthur.

Arthur ignores him. “Do you care about money?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t. I grew up poor but happy. Never felt the need to be rich. All the rich guys I know are miserable.” He glances at Bruce. “Big house and lots of stuff but it doesn’t keep you warm at night. Doesn’t make it any easier to look yourself in the mirror at the end of the day.”

Steve can feel his face flushing. He hadn’t meant to say that. Bruce does not look offended. If anything, he looks amused.

“What about power?” Arthur asks.

“What, like running the world?” Steve asks.

“Sure,” Arthur answers.

“I don’t have the patience for that,” Steve says matter of factly. “Seems like a lot of hassle. I’d rather do some good and then have a drink.”

Arthur surveys him with interest. “So you don’t care about money. You don’t care about power. What _do_ you care about?”

“Diana.”

There is an immediate, and slightly awkward, silence. Steve finally glances at Diana. She does not look embarrassed. In fact, the corner of her mouth is turned up into a slight smile. Beside her, Barry is grinning like a fool.

Arthur glances between Steve and Diana. Understanding dawns on his face. “You’re in love with her.”

“Yep,” Steve says. “Hopelessly. I used to make fun of guys like me. Now I _am_ that guy.”

His face is burning with a fierce blush, but it’s too late to change his mind and ask for the interrogation to stop. He presses his lips together and hopes the lasso won’t inspire him to say anything inappropriate.

Vic looks just as interested as Arthur. “Are you guys together?” he asks Diana.

“Yes,” Steve answers for her immediately. He can’t help it. “Officially,” he adds. “She’s my girlfriend. Which, by the way, is the dumbest fucking title I have ever heard. Friends don’t do the kinds of things we do. Also, I mean, _look_ at her. Does she look like just a _girl_ to you?”

God, this is embarrassing. Diana is now biting her lip around a smile. Every member of the League is grinning except for Bruce, who seems content to just smirk more deeply than usual.

But Steve isn’t done, apparently.

“The answer is no,” he says. “She doesn’t. She’s a goddess, for god’s sake. And I don’t know a whole lot about Greek mythology but I’m pretty sure Aphrodite was the goddess of beauty and I’m pretty sure Diana is probably prettier than her.” He tries not to say anything else, but the lasso’s burn turns slightly painful. “She’s definitely more attractive than any of you anyway,” he adds, wincing around the pain. “Though Clark isn’t a bad looking guy.”

“Oh my god,” Barry says, snorting into his hand.

“Thanks Steve,” Clark says, smiling sincerely.

Steve groans. “Please tell me we’re done.”

“Arthur,” Diana says pointedly.

Arthur shakes his head. He leans down, almost eye level with Steve. “What happens if she stops loving you?”

The humor deflates from the room immediately. Suddenly Steve is right back where he was last night, thinking about all the reasons Diana shouldn’t love him and imagining all the ways she could leave. When he glances up at her, she is glaring at Arthur with a frightening amount of fury. Steve takes a deep breath.

“She told me she won’t. And she’s not a liar.”

Diana looks at him. For a second, they’re the only two people in the room. God, she’s beautiful. Steve thinks he should tell her that. He opens his mouth.

“But what if she does?” Arthur’s voice interrupts. “What if she changes her mind? What if she leaves you? What if she wants someone else?”

“Arthur,” Diana warns.

“He’s loyal to you, not us,” Arthur says, turning toward her. “If you break his heart he’ll turn on us.”

“No I won’t,” Steve says.

They all look at him.

“You don’t love someone because they love you back,” he says. “That’s not love. If she stopped loving me, I wouldn’t blame her. She deserves better. But I wouldn’t betray the League just because I lost her.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the good guys. And I don’t betray the good guys.”

A long moment of silence follows.

“Well,” Barry says, rocking back on his heels. “I’m convinced.”

“I think that’s enough, Arthur,” Clark says.

Arthur peers at Steve suspiciously. Steve holds eye contact and tries to look as unintimidated as possible.

“Are you good to her?” Arthur asks.

“For Zeus’ sake, Arthur,” Diana says, clearly annoyed.

“I try to be,” Steve answers.

Arthur nods. His expression is suddenly menacing. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

Diana looks incensed, but Steve laughs. “I think she can handle that herself,” he says. “Probably much better than you can.”

Vic lets out a low whistle. “ _Boom_ , drop the mic!” Barry crows, clapping Clark on the back in glee. Bruce is smirking again.

Steve and Arthur stare each other down for another moment, and then Arthur’s lips break into a wide grin. “I like you,” he says. He looks at Diana over his shoulder. “I like him.”

Diana smiles. “Me too,” she says.

It’s the softness in her voice that does him in. Steve is suddenly thinking about that black lace thing they bought this afternoon, and all the ways he’s planning to tease her tonight as payback for making him go in that store, and he presses his lips together and gives Diana a panicked look.

She tilts her head at him, confused, and he grimaces against the painful heat of the lasso. “Tonight,” he says, gritting his teeth. _Shut your mouth, Trevor,_ he thinks. He can’t. “Tonight, I want you to—”

“Okay,” Diana cuts him off, flicking her wrist and freeing him of the lasso. “That’s enough.”

The lasso coils back at her side. Steve slumps forward and gives her a grateful look.

“What was he about to say?” Barry asks, confused.

Vic smirks. “I don’t think we need or want to know the answer to that question.”

Arthur laughs, a loud and booming sound that fills the Batcave with its echo. He holds out a hand to Steve, and Steve takes it and gets to his feet.

“So,” Bruce says, folding his arms over his chest. “Time for a vote. Clark?”

Clark smiles. “I’m in.”

“Barry?”

“ _Definitely_ in.”

“Vic?”

“In.”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, I’m in.”

“Diana?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Barry says.

Diana smiles. “In.”

Bruce nods. “Okay. Next steps. We leave for D.C. tomorrow morning on the Fox.”

Steve has no idea what the Fox is, or why Bruce seems to be so fond of naming things after animals. He turns to ask Diana what it is, but she is giving Bruce an odd look.

“D.C.,” she says. It isn’t a question.

They gaze at each other, clearly having an unspoken conversation. “We’re making an official deal with A.R.G.U.S.,” he tells her. “She’ll likely need the President’s approval. We need to be at headquarters.”

“To make a deal,” she says. “That’s it.”

Steve catches a glimpse of Clark glancing between them. He seems to be the only member of the League who has realized Diana and Bruce are having an entirely different conversation than what the rest of them are hearing. Clark meets his gaze, and Steve furrows his eyebrows in question. Clark shakes his head.

“Yes,” Bruce confirms. “That’s it. I’ll call Waller when we get there and tell her we’d like to meet with her. That way she won’t have time to come up with any tricks.”

“She’ll still come up with something,” Arthur says. “She’s a fishy broad.”

The entire League turns and stares at him. Barry snickers.

“What?” Arthur says. “I thought it was funny.”

“Dad jokes,” Barry hums in a falsetto voice.

Arthur snorts and shoves Barry. Barry stumbles backward into Vic. Vic steadies the speedster, and then leans forward and murmurs something under his breath. Steve glances at Diana, and realizes that she’s giving Bruce another meaningful look. Bruce is shaking his head at her earnestly. Clark is glancing between them again, clearly interested.

“Excuse me,” Barry announces, raising his hand. “I have a suggestion.”

Everyone looks in his direction. Barry keeps his hand in the air and gazes patiently at Bruce. Bruce sighs. “Yes, Barry?”

Barry grins and lowers his hand. “Steve’s part of the League now.”

“More or less,” Bruce agrees.

“We should probably do some team bonding then.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Of course it’s _necessary_ ,” Barry argues. “We barely know the guy. Arthur just made Diana wrap him in her lasso to interrogate him. We need to reestablish goodwill.”

“Goodwill is important,” Vic says.

“The best foundation for teamwork,” Barry adds.

Bruce eyes them warily. “What did you have in mind?”

Barry and Vic glance at each other. “Did he say D.C.?” Vic asks. He looks at Bruce. “Did you say we’d be in D.C.?”

“He definitely said D.C.,” Barry adds.

“It’s so weird,” Vic says, “because tomorrow there just so happens to be a really big NCAA basketball game happening in D.C. Georgetown, ranked number three, and Villanova, ranked number one. Huge game.”

“Really?” Barry says, feigning surprise. No one is fooled. “That _is_ weird. But I bet tickets are sold out since it’s such a big game.”

“For sure,” Vic says. “Too bad we couldn’t get a suite.”

“Why can’t we?” Barry asks.

“Too expensive,” Vic says. “And you have to know the right people.”

“Oh,” Barry says, his shoulders slumping. “Too bad we don’t know any famous billionaires who could afford to get us one.”

They both look at Bruce hopefully.

“The two of you are ridiculous,” Bruce says.

“Do they serve alcohol in suites?” Arthur asks. Barry and Vic nod. Arthur looks at Bruce. “We should definitely get a suite.”

“No,” Bruce says.

“Come on,” Barry pleads. He looks at Clark. “Clark?”

Clark shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind catching the game.” Bruce gives Clark an annoyed look, but the Kryptonian just shrugs again. “What? I wouldn’t.”

“Steve?” Barry asks hopefully.

Steve shrugs too. “Yeah, I like basketball.”

Everyone turns their eyes to Diana. She smiles at Bruce. “It would probably be beneficial to spend some quality time together,” she says.

Bruce sighs, clearly defeated.

“Mom said yes, Dad’s gonna cave!” Barry exclaims, high fiving Vic. Then his eyes go wide and he looks at Steve. “That is totally just a phrase,” he says, holding up his hands. “Diana and Bruce aren’t...I mean, when I say they’re the parents I don’t…”

“Dude,” Vic says, nudging Barry. “Quit digging a deeper hole. Steve’s not an idiot, he knows Diana isn’t cheating on him with Bruce.”

“This is the worst conversation I’ve ever been a part of,” Bruce says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

All Steve can think is _Thank god I’m not still wrapped in the lasso._

“So, a suite?” Arthur says. “Unlimited alcohol? Yeah?”

“I’ll make some calls,” Bruce answers on a sigh.

“Who knows, Bruce,” Clark says, patting him on the shoulder. “You might even have some fun.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Bruce mutters.

“Speaking of alcohol,” Arthur says, holding up his index finger.

“You were the only one speaking of alcohol, Arthur,” Diana says wryly.

Arthur grins and puts his arm around Steve. “Let’s crack open the good stuff and see how well the spy holds his liquor.”


	17. Seventeen

A few hours later, there is a massive cluster of glass bottles on the table in Bruce’s living room.

Massive is _not_ an exaggeration. There are three empty bottles of vodka (Arthur), two empty bottles of tequila (Barry), six empty bottles of an IPA from a local Gotham brewery (Clark), eight empty bottles of a stout from the same brewery (Vic), and an empty bottle of red wine (Diana). There is also an almost empty bottle of scotch (Bruce), an all-but-two-fingers empty bottle of bourbon (Steve), and a half empty bottle of Fireball (shots, of which everyone except Bruce has had three). Amongst the empty and half empty bottles there are also plenty of full, unopened bottles.

What Clark finds most amusing about the overflow of alcohol is that not a single person in the room is rip-roaring drunk. Barry’s metabolism is way too fast. Vic only drinks because he hates being the only one who’s not; alcohol doesn’t affect his cybernetics anymore than food or other drinks do. Arthur is probably feeling something, but nothing close to what all that liquor would do to a normal person. And from what Clark understands, it’s close to impossible for Diana to get drunk. (They share that in common.)

Which leaves Bruce and Steve. Bruce has been drinking his scotch steadily, but aside from a more frequent smirk than normal, he’s holding it just fine. Steve, meanwhile, has downed three Fireball shots and been subjected to Arthur refilling his glass at regular intervals. If the spy was actually drinking all the alcohol Arthur was doling out, he’d probably be passed out by now. But he’s not—every time Arthur is momentarily distracted Diana slips the glass out of Steve’s hand, swallows most of its contents, and then hands it back. The first time Clark watched her do it he’d nearly laughed out loud.  

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees Lois’ name on the screen. He smiles, because it’s only been a few minutes since he texted her a candid picture of Diana and Steve. Clark excuses himself from the room and walks into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he answers once he’s out of everyone’s earshot.

“Clark,” Lois says on the other end of the line. It’s a greeting, but it’s also a reaction to the photo he’s just sent her. He can tell because of the way her voice dips at the end, the same way it dips whenever he says something sweet to her.

“The look on her face,” Lois says. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.

“I know,” Clark says, thinking about the picture.

It took him hours to get a good one without Diana noticing, but he thinks the one he got was more than worth the wait. In it, Diana is seated in one of the sleek looking armchairs in Bruce’s living room. Her legs are tucked up beneath her body, and she is holding a wine glass in her hand. Steve is half-sitting, half-leaning on the armrest of the chair she’s sitting in. He is bent forward in mid-laugh, a nearly empty glass of bourbon in his hand. Diana’s face is turned upward, her eyes fixed on Steve’s face and her lips stretched into a soft smile.

“Does she know you took it?” Lois asks.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t get the look.”

Lois laughs. “You definitely would’ve gotten the look if she knew. What’s he like?”

Clark scrubs his thumb idly over a spot on the counter while he tries to think of the words. “Noble,” he decides at last. “And pretty funny, actually.”

“He’s cute.”

Clark smirks. “He’s not a bad looking guy.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Clark imagines that Lois is studying the picture. “Is she as happy as she looks?” his fiancee asks him quietly.

“Happier,” he answers.

“And him?”

Clark thinks about Steve’s lasso interrogation: the way he’d said _Diana_ without a second’s hesitation when Arthur asked him what he cared about. The way he had gazed at her after he said it, like his whole existence hinged on whether or not she felt the same.

“Head over heels,” he tells Lois.

“I’m glad,” Lois says. He can hear her smile.

Clark smiles too. “So am I.”

He talks to his fiancee a little while longer before saying goodnight. When he gets back to the living room he finds his friends standing in a line before one of the glass walls, their backs to him as they look out at the lake. Arthur has his hands raised, and is making the water of the lake curl into various shapes.

“Shit,” Steve mutters in wonder. “Look at it move!”

Diana smiles at him affectionately.

“Bet I can run a thousand times around the lake faster than you can swim it,” Barry says, nudging Arthur.

Arthur snorts. “Challenge accepted. Let’s see what you got, Flash.” They scramble for the door.

“Be careful,” Diana calls out after them.

Clark heads for the table and picks up another IPA. Bruce appears next to him and reaches for the scotch. “You know this is only the beginning. I bet you a thousand bucks that Arthur is going to try to get you and Barry to race by the end of the night.”

Clark smiles as he twists the cap off his beer. “Not taking that bet.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh. “Smart man.”

On the other side of the room Vic roars in laughter and pounds on the glass wall. Both Clark and Bruce turn to see Barry sprawled before the window, his face in the ground. A moment later he’s up and gone again, sending a spray of water flying behind him.

“Did he fall?” Steve asks.

“Arthur grabbed his foot and tripped him,” Vic says gleefully.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to break up a fist fight?” Diana sighs.

Vic snorts. “Because you probably will?”

Steve leans closer to Diana, his head bent as he murmurs something to her. She smiles and says something back. They stare at each other. Diana bites her lip and looks back out the window. Steve gazes at her a second longer, then follows suit. Clark glances at Bruce. Bruce takes a long sip of scotch. Clark drinks his beer and tries to figure out if he should say something to Bruce about Diana.

Clark is pretty sure that neither Bruce nor Diana knows that he knows they were more than just friends. He’s also pretty sure that he’s the only one in their group—with the exception, most likely, of Alfred—who knows. He’s known since December, when he accidentally caught a glimpse of Diana standing in Bruce’s bedroom one night as he flew over the lake and toward the house. He hadn’t thought much about it, or even realized it was Bruce’s bedroom and not her own that she was standing in, until Bruce appeared next to her and Diana turned to face him.

Clark nearly fell out of the sky in surprise when he saw Bruce slip his arms around Diana’s waist and kiss her. And he nearly died of embarrassment when, a few seconds later, Diana pulled Bruce’s shirt up over his head. Clark turned around before he saw anything else, flew straight back to Metropolis, and tried to forget what he’d seen. From that point on, he made sure that he didn’t accidentally tune in to the sound of their heartbeats or their voices when they were in the same place. He didn’t think he’d be able to look either of them in the eye again if he heard...well, anything.

Since then, it had seemed glaringly obvious to him that his friends were inching their way toward a relationship. They had this way of looking at each other from across the room, like they were having an entire conversation without saying a word, and despite the fact that it embarrassed Clark to no end that he had accidentally witnessed the beginning stages of what was clearly not the first time they’d slept together, he was glad for them. They both deserved to be happy.

And then Barry brought Steve back. Clark had stood on that dock and listened to Diana pour her heart out about how deeply she’d loved Steve for a century and he knew that whatever Bruce and Diana had been inching toward was over before it had even really started.  

“I’m sorry about you and Diana,” Clark says quietly before he loses his nerve.

Bruce goes rigid next to him. A very uncomfortable silence lingers between them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce says gruffly.

“Yes you do.”

A too long pause follows. Neither of them look at each other. Clark is watching Diana, who is laughing with Steve and Vic. Clark has a feeling that Bruce is watching Diana too.

“How’d you know?” Bruce asks at last in a barely audible growl.

Clark won’t tell him that he’d accidentally caught them in the act. It will embarrass Bruce, and probably be a painful reminder. So he settles for something that is true but not the actual answer.

“Your heart rate speeds up when she walks in the room.”

He realizes a second too late that his answer might actually cause _more_ pain than if he’d just told the truth. Having sex with Diana is one thing. Having strong enough feelings for her that his heart rate speeds up in her presence is another.

Clark glances at Bruce from the corner of his eye. As he suspected, Bruce is staring at Diana. “Does his do that too?” Bruce asks.

Clark has the sudden urge to hug him. He resists. Bruce is not a hugger. “Yeah.”

Bruce nods. “Good.” He downs the rest of his scotch. “I’ve got some work to do. Try not to let them burn my house down.”

Bruce heads in the direction of the Batcave. Clark watches him go. When he turns back to the room he finds that everyone is still watching the race on the lake—except for Diana, who is staring after Bruce with a look on her face that makes Clark’s heart twist.

Out on the dock last night, he’d heard a lot of things in Diana’s voice when she talked about losing Steve. What stood out to him most was the grief and the loneliness, perhaps because he understands how it feels to be one of a kind in a world that crucifies exceptionality just as fast as it worships it. One of the reasons he cherishes Lois is because he knows how rare it is to find someone who actually sees him for who he is and not who they want him to be. After his conversation with Diana, Clark suspected that she’d found the same thing in Steve.

By the time Steve’s lasso-wrapped interrogation was finished, Clark was sure. Diana’s captain _sees_ her, and she loves him for it. That’s why it had never been a question of _who_ she would choose—only a question of whether Steve would choose her, too.

But choosing Steve doesn’t diminish what she’d had with Bruce. For Clark, that’s the most tragic part. Diana is built to protect people from pain. He can’t imagine how she feels now that she’s causing it. What happened between her and Bruce is nobody’s fault, and nobody did anything wrong, and they’re both being terribly mature about it. But that just makes it so much _worse_.

A few moments later, after Vic points out that it’s starting to snow and Barry wipes out again, Diana makes her way toward Clark. She sets her wine glass down on the table and then folds her arms over her chest.

“I don’t suppose he’s going to bed instead of back down to the Batcave to do some work,” she says quietly.

Clark sips his beer. “I’m going to plead the fifth on that one.”

She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to. Her worry is evident.

“He’ll be okay, Di,” Clark says, trying to soothe her.

She shakes her head. “I think he’s slept maybe eight hours in the past two days.”

There’s guilt in her expression now. Clark wants to hug her too. Unlike Bruce, she wouldn’t mind if he did. But he’d also have to explain to her _why_ he was hugging her, and though he’d wanted Bruce to know that he knew, just so that he didn’t feel so alone with his heartbreak, Clark has no desire to tell Diana that he knows. She’s probably beating herself up enough over hurting Bruce. She doesn’t need to worry that someone else is doing it too.

“He’ll be okay,” Clark says again.

Diana lifts her eyes to his. Their gaze holds, and for a second Clark wonders if she knows that he knows, even though he hasn’t told her. Lasso or no, she’s not the kind of person you can easily keep secrets from.

“I’d like to know what you think,” Diana says to him.

He tries not to panic. “About?”

“Waller,” she says. Clark breathes an internal sigh of relief. “Steve. All of it.”

Clark takes another swig of beer. “I think Bruce has come up with a very good strategy for dealing with a very complicated situation.” He glances sideways at her. “But I’m guessing you don’t like it.”

She smiles humorlessly. “Disliking something isn’t reason enough to refuse to do it. This will not be the first time I’ve done something I don’t like. Nor the last, I’m sure. I’ve wracked my brain for a better solution, but there isn’t one. So this will have to do.”

_Can do attitude_ is what Clark’s adoptive father would say if he were here. His mother, he suspects, would just hug Diana tightly.

“I can’t think of one either,” Clark admits. He watches her watching Steve and thinks of Lois. “If the shoe were on the other foot, and it was Lois, I don’t think I’d be as calm as you are.”

She turns her gaze to him. “Do I seem calm?”

He laughs because she says it so, well, calmly. “Yeah,” he tells her, feeling a surge of affection in his chest. “But you’re always calm. Or at least you appear to be. Still waters run deep, I guess.”

“I’ve learned to internally process in my old age,” she says, a thread of humor in her tone.

Clark grins. “At least Barry refers to you as mom instead of grandma.”

Diana’s lips finally break into a real smile. She shakes her head. “Small victories, I suppose.”

A moment of comfortable silence passes. Clark watches as Steve talks animatedly with Vic, pointing out at the lake and the red blur that’s still racing across its surface.

“He handled Arthur well,” Clark observes. “And the lasso.”

“He’s been bound before,” Diana says absently.

“But still. Takes a lot of nerve to do that in front of a bunch of people you don’t know.”

The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “He’s never been short on nerve.”

“Guess he couldn’t be if he was brave enough to make a move on you.”

Diana turns to look at him, her expression equal parts surprised and amused. “And how do you know _I_ didn’t make the first move?”

Clark grins. “Did you?”

“I seem to remember that it was mutual. Though I suppose my memory could have gone spotty, given my old age.”

Clark throws his head back and laughs. Diana smiles, clearly pleased with herself. Clark bumps her shoulder with his. “You seem happy.”

“I am,” she murmurs, staring at Steve again. She’s practically glowing as she says it, and Clark is so thrilled for her that he thinks he might burst.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like him.”

She nods. “I think the two of you will end up being very good friends.”

“As close as you and Lois?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Double date sometime?”

She smiles. “Sounds wonderful.” She finally turns away from Steve. “Well,” she sighs. “It’s getting late, and we have an early morning. I think I’ll head to bed.”

Clark smiles at her. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Make sure his glass doesn’t stay too full without you around to empty it.”

“Saw that, did you?” Diana says, laughing.

“You were very smooth,” Clark assures her. “Arthur is none the wiser. And Lois is going to love that story.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will.” She smiles, her eyes on Steve again. “And while I appreciate your offer, I don’t think he’ll be out here much longer either.”

As if on cue, Steve turns and looks their way. He fixes his gaze on Diana. Clark glances between them and immediately feels the back of his neck growing hot. That is _not_ a look that anybody else was supposed to witness.

Diana turns toward Clark and puts a hand on his arm with a smile. “Goodnight, Clark.”

Clark nods. “Goodnight.”

She disappears down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom. Steve’s eyes follow her until she is out of sight. Once she’s gone, he slides his hands in his pockets and turns back toward the lake. Then he looks back in the direction Diana had gone. Then back to the lake.

For the next few minutes, Clark watches in amusement as Steve tries to act like he’s not attempting to let a respectable amount of time pass before he follows Diana to her bedroom. His eyes continually fixate on the clock hanging above the fireplace.

Barry and Arthur arrive back in the room and begin to argue heatedly about who cheated and who won. During a brief pause in the argument, Steve stretches and yawns and says, “I’m kind of tired. I think I’ll head to bed.”

Arthur and Barry immediately protest. Arthur declares that Steve just needs to drink some more, and Barry declares that Steve can’t go to bed when they’re clearly bonding so well. Steve looks a little overwhelmed by their vehemence, and Clark takes pity on him.

“Hey, Barry, how about that race?” he says, setting his beer bottle down on the table.

Barry, Vic, and Arthur all turn to face him with wide eyes and matching grins. Steve looks at him gratefully.

“You are so on,” Barry declares. “Where?”

“To Metropolis and back,” Vic suggests.

“I’m starving,” Arthur says. “How about we see who can get a pizza here the fastest?”

The three of them start bickering, and Steve takes advantage of their distraction and sidles in Clark’s direction. “Thanks,” he says when he’s close enough.

“Sure,” Clark says. “They’re not hard to distract.”

“Obviously,” Steve says with a laugh. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Hey, do you uh...do you know which room is Diana’s? We didn’t...I mean, I slept in my room last night. I don’t know which one is hers.”

The tops of Steve’s cheeks are slightly pink. Clark nods. “Yeah. Down that hallway, hang a right, fourth door on your right.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, seemingly relieved.

“Are we doing this or what, Clark?” Barry calls from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Clark says. He smiles at Steve. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them away from the lake.”

Steve frowns. “Why would I worry?”

“Because an entire wall of Diana’s bedroom is glass that overlooks the lake.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and then he blushes a brilliant shade of crimson. “Right. Yeah. That would be...that would be appreciated. Thanks.”

Clark grins and claps him on the back. “Goodnight, Steve.”

* * *

Diana’s bedroom is dark and quiet.

She shuts the door behind her and leans back against it, closing her eyes. Drifting awake this morning in Steve’s arms seems like it was years, not hours ago. She does not get physically exhausted as easily as people do, but she sympathizes with their emotional exhaustion. Right now, she feels drained. She did not doubt that Steve was brave or talented enough to take on the mantle of the League’s representative. She did not doubt that Steve would win the League members over. She does not doubt that he will be the best liaison they could have asked for.

She is, if she’s being honest, doubting her own ability to handle it all.

She is not unfamiliar with fear. She does not see it as a weakness. Everyone is afraid of something. What matters is choosing to do what needs to be done anyway. She is terrified she will lose Steve if he works for A.R.G.U.S., but she will let him do it anyway because it is what needs to be done. The others—except, perhaps, for Bruce—seem to be oblivious to her fear. What was it that Clark had said? _You’re always calm._

She is not calm. She is anxious. She is afraid. There is dread gnawing on her insides, threatening to eat her from the inside out. During their day together, it had been easy to pretend that there was nothing to worry about. But the moment they walked into the Batcave, and Steve came face to face with her brothers in arms, she could no longer pretend. Suddenly all of it was painfully real. She had squared her shoulders and lifted her chin and said what she needed to say and done what she needed to do. Afterward, amidst a virtual ocean of alcohol, she had smiled and laughed and teased as though nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

But through every second of it she had been afraid. Now, alone in the darkened quiet of her bedroom, she feels as though the fear may strangle her. She’s fairly certain that Steve knows she is afraid. She had told him so last night, and this morning when he asked her how she felt about the plan. But she doesn’t think he realizes just how afraid she actually is. She should tell him, she knows. She will.   

Just not tonight. She has plans for tonight.

Diana opens her eyes and surveys her surroundings. Through the glass wall on the opposite side of the room, she can see the snow falling hard over the lake. It’s beautiful. It reminds her of Veld.

She pushes off of the door and heads for the shopping bags on her desk. She rifles through all that she bought, looking for the black set, and finds it. After she’s changed, she pulls on a thin silk robe and ties it shut. Then she treads softly over to the window and watches the snow fall. She doesn’t think he’ll be much longer, judging by the look on his face when she left.

A moment later, she hears the bedroom door open behind her. She turns her head slightly to the side and listens as she watches the glass. Steve’s reflection looms behind her a moment before she feels his hands slide around her waist. He ducks his head, and brushes an open mouthed kiss against her neck just beneath her ear.

“Hi,” he breathes against her skin.

She practically melts back into him. She can feel the tension draining from her body, and she closes her eyes just long enough to exhale and think _Finally._

“Hi,” she murmurs.

He rests his chin on her shoulder. She watches him in the reflection of the window. He watches her watching him.

“I think they like me,” he says quietly.

She runs her fingertips over his forearm. “I think so too.”

He nuzzles into her neck again. “You did that.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t do a thing.”

“They orbit around you,” he says. “Initial suspicions aside, they were never going to say no. They’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked.” He presses another kiss against her skin. “It’s kind of nice to know I’m not the only one who’s awestruck by you.”

It’s just sentimental enough that she has to smile at the thought of how Sameer and his boys—or Barry and her boys—would react if they heard it. Her Steve is a soldier and a pilot and a fighter. He is also, she’s noticed, very sweet when he wants to be.

“Awestruck,” she repeats, laughing a little. “Even Arthur?”

“Even Arthur.”

“I don’t think he would agree,” she muses.

“Maybe not to your face,” he says. “But just because we don’t admit things doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

He wasn’t speaking of her, but his words sting a little anyway. She’s not sure why. She is not refusing to admit anything. She has not lied to him. She’s already told him that she’s afraid to lose him. Repeating it over and over won’t change anything—it will only make him feel guilty, and she doesn’t want that.

They were always going to end up here. Steve was always going to put on a uniform again. At least this way she can protect him. It’s the best way that his desire to do good could have possibly worked out for her.

She still hates it.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.

“Of course.”

He straightens. He leaves one arm wrapped around her waist but loosens the other, lifts it so that he can curl his fingers around the edge of her robe by her collarbone. He trails his hand down the fabric, the backs of his fingers sliding along her skin. He pauses when he reaches the middle of her chest. He lingers just long enough that she holds her breath, wondering if he’s going to slide his hand inside the fabric to touch her. He doesn’t. He moves his hand back up along the edge of the robe again.

“Why aren’t you the leader of the League?”

She’d been focused on his hand, so his question brings her up short. It’s not what she expected him to ask.

“The League was Bruce’s creation,” she says, looking up at his reflection. “He recruited us all.”

“So he leads by default?”

“He leads because he is capable. Because he is the best suited for it and the best at it. This plan that will have you working as our liaison and spying on Waller is his.”

Steve’s hand pauses again over the valley of her chest. “It’s a brilliant plan.”

“He’s a brilliant man,” she says. “That’s why he leads.”

He flattens his hand on her sternum, his palm warm against her skin. “You’re brilliant too.”

She smiles. “I think you are a little biased.”

“I think biased is an understatement.”

They stare at each other in the glass, the heavy falling snow layered over their reflections. A study of contrasts, she thinks. All that frigid air swirling the snow outside against all the heat in his eyes, searing her deep down into her soul.

She turns in his arms and slides her hands back along his sides. “You were great tonight, Steve,” she tells him. “Truly. They may have chosen to give you a chance because of me, but you’re the one who sealed the deal. You’re the one they believe in.”

She can see the pride shining in his eyes, and she’s glad. He _should_ be proud. She’s proud of him.

He traces a pattern on the top of her shoulder over the fabric of her robe. “We did have a close call though,” he says.

He glances up at her, smirking, and she furrows her eyebrows.

“With the lasso,” he clarifies. “When I almost told them what I wanted you to do tonight.”

Desire flares deep in her body. She wants to ask him what he wants her to do, but she knows it will lead to one of two things: Either he will blush at her request and she will be helpless against the urge to kiss the shyness right out of him, or he will give her a wicked smile and whisper something provocative and she will be helpless against the urge to kiss him senseless. Both of those things are very appealing—but not nearly as appealing as getting to see the look on his face when he realizes what she’s wearing underneath her robe.

“Speaking of which,” she murmurs. She pushes lightly against his chest, and then steps backward and out of his embrace. He drops his hands to his sides and frowns at the distance between them. “We had a deal,” she explains. “You go in the store, and I…”

She tugs on the belt of her robe, and the knot falls free. The robe falls open just enough for him to catch a glimpse, and she watches his eyes widen. His mouth moves, like he’s trying to say something but can’t remember the words, and she feels a fair amount of satisfaction that she’s able to leave him speechless before he’s even seen it all. She rolls her shoulders back, and the silk slides smoothly off her body and pools at her feet.

He stares.

She knows she’s beautiful. She has been told many times. She can feel it in the way people stare at her, their eyes traversing her body in admiration. But she’s never felt as beautiful as she does right now, with Steve’s eyes drinking her in like she is water in the desert.

“Wow,” he whispers, finally finding his voice.

“That’s the first thing you ever said to me,” she tells him, smiling.

“Because you were beautiful,” he answers immediately, looking up into her eyes. He stretches his arm out and then pauses, as if unsure if he’s been invited to touch her. She bites her lip around a smile and nods. He brushes his fingertips over her shoulder. “There were drops of water on your skin. And that night on the boat I dreamed about kissing them.”

“Really?” she asks, a thrill racing through her.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. He trails his fingers along her collarbone. “You’re still…” He shakes his head. “Without the lasso, it’s hard to put into words how I feel about you,” he admits.

“Not always.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her.

“You are rather talkative when you’re inside me,” she says simply.

He drops his hand immediately from her skin, turns half away from her, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes the way he had at the mall. She thinks it’s beyond adorable that his first reaction is to try to behave instead of to lunge at her.

“ _God_ , Diana,” he says.

“I like it,” she says. “Just to be clear.”

He lowers his hands and stares at her.

“ _Really_ like it,” she adds. She lifts her hand and fiddles absently with one of her bra straps. “It’s hard for you because you’re a spy,” she tells him. “You’ve learned to control what you let people see, and what you say. The lasso takes away your control.”

“And being with you?” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on her hand.

She has a feeling he already knows the answer to that, but she tells him anyway. “If my reasoning stands, then making love to me also makes you lose control.”

He swallows hard, and she bites her lip and imagines what his mouth will taste like when he finally closes the distance between them. It’s not a lot of space, just the foot or so that she put between them before she loosened her robe, but she wants to touch him so badly it feels like miles. She could close the distance herself. She knows he would not push her away. But she’s kind of curious to see what it will take to make him reach for her again.

“You do that on purpose, don’t you?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Do what,” he repeats, snorting in disbelief. “I don’t think you realized how,” he gestures vaguely at her body instead of choosing a word, “you were before. Back in 1918. Now it’s 2018, and I get the feeling you know exactly how beautiful you are. And you know exactly what you’re doing when you say stuff like that to me.”

“I do,” she admits. Still, he does not move toward her. She’s starting to get impatient. “You’re awfully far away,” she observes.

He smirks at her. “Is that a complaint?”

“Yes.”

He slides his hands into his pockets. “I want to look at you. I want to be able to close my eyes a hundred years from now and remember exactly what you look like right now.”

Her blood starts to simmer in her veins. If he’s going to be this sweet all night, she’s not going to let him get a single second of sleep.

When his eyes flutter downward and linger on her legs, she decides that if he’s going to stay over there and not touch her, she might as well give him something to look at. She slips her fingers beneath the lace top of one of her stockings and traces the curve of her thigh. His eyes follow the path of her fingers. She briefly considers moving her fingers elsewhere, since she’s pretty sure that will make his knees buckle from want and send him flying in her direction, but she decides to file that idea away for another night. Maybe tomorrow.

“The White Sox won the 1917 World Series over the New York Giants,” she murmurs instead.

His eyes snap up to hers. He grins and shakes his head. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I can never distract myself with baseball stats again.”

“Not without thinking of this,” she replies. She tilts her head. “Isn’t that what you want? To think about me like this?”

His eyes move back down to her body. “I’m pretty much always thinking about some version of this.”

She can’t stand it anymore. He likes to look at her and she likes to be seen but she wants to _feel_ him. She reaches out, curls her fingers around the lapels of his shirt, and pulls him close. “I’m pretty much always thinking about this too,” she confesses.

He puts his hands on her shoulders and then slides them down her back, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Maybe it’s because you’re still getting used to having me back.”

“Maybe you’re still getting used to having me too,” she says.

“I like having you,” he murmurs, shifting a little closer.

She gazes up at him. “Maybe someday we won’t want each other as often.”

He shakes his head. “I’m always going to want you like this, Diana. Even a thousand years from now, I’m still going to want you. I’ll spend the rest of forever wanting you.”

Diana feels all the air rush right out of her lungs. It’s another sentimental confession that she’s certain his boys and her boys would mock him for. But the boys aren’t here. It’s just the two of them, and the swirling snow outside, and the entire night stretched before them.  

She lifts her face to his but stops just short of his lips. “I thought you said it was hard to put into words,” she whispers.

He strokes his thumbs along the undersides of her bra. “Must be the proximity,” he whispers back.

“Any other confessions, Captain?”

He grins at her use of his title. “I’d rather show you than tell you, Princess.”

It’s been a long time since anyone called her _Princess_. The way he says it makes her shiver, but the way he kisses her makes her feel as though she has caught fire. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her and the tension builds between them, blazing in its intensity. His hands are everywhere, leaving a trail of heat over her skin, drawing the breath out of her lungs faster than she can draw it in. She does not feel cold the way humans do, but when he presses her back against the window the iciness of the glass on her heated skin makes her gasp a little into his mouth.

He seems to like that. He also seems to like it when she hitches one of her legs up around his hip, because it means that he can slip his fingers under the lace top of her stocking, and trace the curve of her thigh as she had done. She tilts her head back at the feel of it, breaking their kiss, and he transfers his attention to her throat.

“Steve,” she murmurs, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Diana,” he breathes. Zeus, the way he says her name. Like she’s the only person in the world. Like he needs her the same way she needs him.

“Take me to bed,” she says. She means it to be a command but it comes out breathless, wanting. She doesn’t care—she doesn’t care if he thinks that she’s begging for him because she _is_. “Please,” she adds on a sigh.

She can feel his smile against her throat and she knows why. She had begged him last night too, after their conversation about making their own rules. He had brought her to the edge repeatedly and then stopped short each time when she was _this close,_ letting her hang and then float back down without any satisfaction just because he could. _Steve,_ she had moaned in frustration after what felt like the millionth time. _Please._ He had smiled against the inside of her thigh and said _Be patient, Diana,_ and she had told him in a breathless whisper _I’ve been patient for a century._

He had looked up at her, sadness in his eyes but determination too, and then he ducked his head and took her right back to the brink. She’d waited so long and he’d worked her so well that when it finally hit, it hit hard enough to make her see stars. As she came back to herself in the midst of an incoherent haze of pleasure, she felt him rise over her body and nuzzle into her neck. He murmured _You’re so beautiful I can barely stand it_ and she had wrapped her arms around him and thought _I love you so much I can barely stand it._

In the present, Steve sucks hard on her throat. Diana arches into him and digs her nails into his skin.

“Take me to bed, Steve,” she says. This time it is a command.

He bends down, grasping her other thigh and lifting so that both her legs are wrapped around him. He smiles against her lips, the wicked smile that she loves.

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Steve is dying.

There is a blossom of red on his white shirt, right over his heart. A trickle of blood is trailing out of the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes are clouding over with death as he reaches out for her, his fingers spread, his hand trembling.

“Diana.”

She is on her knees, his head and shoulders in her lap. She presses her hands over his chest, trying to stem the bleeding. Her hands are slick with it, hot and sticky and endless. She can’t get it to stop. There’s so much of it. So much blood.

“Steve,” she says, curling over him, her mouth pressed to his forehead. “Steve, don’t go.”

His fingers tangle in her hair. “S’ok angel.”

“Steve,” she sobs. Her whole body is wracked with it and she can’t breathe. “Please.”

A high-pitched laugh rings out, and Diana looks up to see Waller standing above them, the gun in her hands, her eyes alight with fire. “Some goddess you are,” she laughs.

Diana feels no rage. There is only grief, sweeping and ceaseless, and she begs again as she curls back over Steve.

“Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please, Steve, _please_.”

His fingers tug lightly on her hair. “You’re so beautiful I can barely stand it,” he whispers.

His hand drops. She leans back, watches the life leak out of his eyes, and then he is dead.   
Steve is dead.

He’s gone. Again. She’s alone. Again. She’s alone and she’s immortal and she’s going to spend the rest of eternity missing him, walking around with a cavern in her chest that can’t be filled, and she can’t do this again, she can’t, _please no,_ and Waller is laughing, always laughing—

Diana wakes with an agonized scream ripping out of her throat.

_Steve._

She bolts upright, gasping, her hands twisted in the sheets. She glances around wildly but there is no Waller, no gun, no blood. It is dark, and there is snow falling hard outside the window of her room in Bruce’s house in Gotham.

Behind her, Steve’s voice says, “Diana?”

She turns. He’s blinking at her in the darkness, his blue eyes alive and bright and worried. She glances down at his chest, but there is no bullet hole. No blood.

She closes her eyes and turns around again. She exhales, the breath rattling in her chest. She bends forward, pushes her fingers through her hair, and buries her head in her hands.

It was just a nightmare.

Steve’s fingertips brush over her back. She flinches. She doesn’t mean to. But she can’t—it just seemed so _real_.

He pulls his hand away. A moment passes. She wants to turn to him, wants to wrap her arms around him and feel his heartbeat and watch his chest rise and fall until she’s sure that he’s alive. She doesn’t move.

His fingertips brush over her skin. She tenses again, but he does not pull away this time. He flattens his hand, glides it back and forth over her shoulder blades. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. There is a sob sitting in the back of her throat. There are tears in her eyes.

The mattress shifts a little, and she feels his lips press gently against her bare shoulder. “What did you dream?” he whispers into the dark.

She shakes her head but does not speak because she doesn’t trust her voice. His body presses against hers, and his arms wrap around her. He kisses her shoulder again. She closes her eyes tightly but the tears leak out anyway, spilling down over her cheeks.   
She doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t know how to let someone in on this part of her. She has awakened previous lovers with nightmares, but it was never an option to tell them the truth and they knew it. But this is _Steve_. He’s the one she’s had nightmares about for a century. He’s the one she’s terrified to lose. If ever there was anyone to share this with, it’s him.

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to turn toward him. She presses her forehead to his and reaches out, resting her hand over his heart. He lifts a hand to her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, and when he encounters the damp trails from her tears she feels his body go rigid against her.

“Diana,” he breathes, his voice catching, and it’s too much for her.

“Don’t,” she warns, but it’s too late. More tears start to fall, and the sob finally escapes from her throat.

“Come here,” he whispers.

He opens his arms to her and she turns fully into him, collapsing against his chest with a weariness she’s never let herself fully feel before. He holds her tightly, his face buried in her hair, and whispers to her until she has no more tears left to cry.


	18. Eighteen

Steve wakes up the moment Diana moves against him.

After she woke them both with her scream, she was the first to fall asleep again. He has never understood the phrase _crying yourself to sleep._ He does now. Diana had cried herself to sleep.

She is not an expressive crier. Like everything else with her, there are no theatrics. There’s just emotion, quiet but powerful, and a steady stream of tears. He didn’t know how to comfort her, so he did the best he could—he combed his fingers through her hair, and caressed her skin, and whispered to her the kinds of promises and confessions that you only whisper when you’re tangled in the dark with someone you love wholly and desperately.

Eventually she fell asleep, and he just watched her for a while until he fell asleep too. It was fitful at best. Every time she shifted against him in her sleep he snapped awake, ready. Now, she’s actually awake. She rises from his chest gently, her hair trailing along his skin. She climbs out of the bed with the kind of elegant grace only she can manage. She does not look at him. She stands for a second next to the bed, gazing out the window, and then she pads softly toward the bathroom. A moment later, he hears her turn on the shower.

He sits up. The digital clock on the bedside table says 6:41. Outside, the world is covered in a thick blanket of snow. The sky is overcast and the clouds still look full. Bruce did not say what time they were leaving for D.C., but Steve’s guessing that the Batman is an early riser. Diana, at least, has decided it’s time to start her day.

But Steve’s not ready to let what happened last night slide away into memory.

He climbs out of the bed far less gracefully than she did. He crosses the room, his toes curling against the cold floor, and peers into the bathroom. There is a large shower stall in the corner, encased in frosted glass. He can see the vague outline of Diana’s body and her dark hair. He weighs his options. He could join her. He could leave her alone and give her some space. He could ask her whether she wants some company.

He wavers only briefly before entering the bathroom and reaching for the handle of the shower stall. He swings it open gently.

Diana is under the spray, her head bent and her back to him. She turns her head slightly to the side so he knows that she’s realized he’s there, but she does not turn toward him. He steps into the shower and closes the door behind him. Steam curls around his body.

For a long moment, neither of them move. And then, finally, she turns to face him. She reaches out her hand, drops of water clinging to her skin, and presses it against his heart. He moves toward her immediately, his arms circling her body, his lips pressing against her skin. She nuzzles into him. He moves his hands over her. He feels no need to say anything. She must not either.

Eventually, she pulls away. He lets her go, watching as she reaches for a bottle of shampoo sitting on a shelf cut into the tile. An idea strikes him. He takes the bottle out of her hand. She looks up at him with lifted eyebrows. He squeezes some shampoo into his hand, puts the bottle back on the shelf, and then smiles at her as he buries his hands in her hair and starts to work the shampoo into a lather.

She stares at him, her lips parted in surprise. He does not let it deter the work of his hands, or his smile. When her mouth finally slides into a small and gentle smile of her own, he winks at her. She lifts her hands and runs her fingers over his skin as he works, tracing idly over his scars and the contours of his muscles.

When the shampoo is rinsed completely from her hair, he turns back to the shelf. There are quite a few bottles sitting there, and he studies them all curiously. He’s never actually taken a shower with a woman before, let alone a woman in the 21st century. He’s not sure what comes next. She reaches around him, her chest pressing into his shoulder blades, and plucks a bottle from the shelf.

“This one,” she whispers in his ear.

He tilts his head toward her mouth. “For your hair?”

“For my hair,” she echoes.

He turns back to her and dutifully smoothes the contents from the new bottle into her hair, then rinses it out. Another brief consideration of the shelf follows. She reaches around him again and grabs the shampoo, squeezes some into her own palm, and then sets the bottle back down. When he turns around, a question on his lips, she buries her hands in his hair and proceeds to lather it up. She tilts his head back, brushing her fingers over his forehead so that he won’t get any soap in his eye, and when he grins at her, she winks at him.

After his hair is finished, she hands him a clear bottle with a pale pink liquid inside. He frowns up at her. “Hair?”

“Body,” she says, smirking.

He feels a little heated at that, but he does not want to ruin the comfortable intimacy of what they’re doing. So he takes a deep breath and focuses on the task at hand, which requires sudsing up every inch of the goddess with whom he is currently sharing a shower.

Such a rough life he leads.

He hands her the bottle afterward so that she can return the favor, and she smiles. “You’ll smell like me if I use this.”

He hadn’t thought of that. The pink liquid smells like flowers, the same scent he’s smelled on her skin the last few days.

“Good,” he tells her.

After his body is washed clean she joins him under the spray. The water streams down around them, running in rivulets over her skin. There are droplets clinging to her shoulder, and he doesn’t resist the impulse that throbs in his chest—he just leans forward and kisses them, tasting the water and her skin the way he had dreamed of doing that night on the boat. He finds her mouth next. It is a languid kiss, drenched with desire but not the kind that they will act on. He just wants to kiss her, and she lets him.

Eventually, he turns the shower off and swings the stall door open. He steps out onto the mat on the floor, and she follows. There are fluffy white towels hanging on a nearby rack. He brushes one lightly over her body and then wraps it around her as she squeezes her hair out. He dries himself quickly, wraps the towel around his waist, and then crowds into her space.  

“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning into him.

He plays with the ends of her damp hair. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes trail over his face. She’s harder to read than she was when he first met her, but he thinks he’s starting to learn her expressions. Right now, for instance, she looks as though she has something to say.

Sure enough, she trails her fingers over the scar on his shoulder and murmurs, “I know you want to ask.”

It’s a vague statement, but he doesn’t need any clarification. He shakes his head. “I only want to know what you want to share.”

She isn’t looking at him anymore. Silence lingers between them. “I dreamt of losing you,” she says at last. “Waller shot you. You died in my arms.”

He’d suspected the nightmare was about him because she had screamed his name when she bolted awake, but he hadn’t been sure. A million questions start to tumble around his brain, but he presses his lips together to keep them in. She cried herself to sleep in his arms last night. She let him take care of her in the shower. Even now she is standing in the circle of his arms instead of pushing him away. She’s clearly _trying_ to let him in. But there is something in the evenness of her voice and the rigid way she is holding herself upright that makes it obvious that it’s a near Herculean effort for her.

He understands the feeling. He remembers how terrifying and painful it was to have that argument with her that somehow turned into an acknowledgment that he was ashamed of his past, that he was afraid he wasn’t good enough for her, that he was terrified she would leave him if she saw who he really was. If there had been any sort of doubt in his mind about whether he wanted to spend an eternity with her, it had evaporated the moment she saw him at his most vulnerable and responded by climbing into his lap and telling him _I love you_ without even a hint of hesitation.

Last night, he realizes, was Diana’s version of that moment. She is extraordinarily self-possessed. _Composed,_ he’d told her once. It was just another way of saying _You’re always in control._ But last night, she hadn’t been. Last night he saw a part of her that she had not given him permission to see, and once she was in the middle of it she couldn’t get out. _Don’t,_ she’d warned him, but he’d known the second it came out of her mouth that she was talking to herself just as much as she was talking to him. She didn’t want to fall apart in front of him, but she did. Now, she’s trying to figure out how to deal with the aftermath.

“Have you had nightmares before?” he asks her quietly.

She nods.

“About me?”

She is still not looking at him. “They’re almost always about you,” she whispers.

He feels his chest tighten. “You had nightmares about me before I came back?” he asks, stunned. “When I was still dead?”

She winces a little at the final word. _Please say no,_ he thinks. _Please say that I misunderstood, and that this is just about me working for A.R.G.U.S._

She strokes her fingertips over his clavicle and says, “Yes.”

“Right after I died, though,” he says, hoping that if he says it, it will be true.

She shakes her head. “Not just then.” She runs her fingers over his skin again. “I had one the night before Barry brought you back.”

Steve opens his mouth, tries to take a deep breath, but he can’t get any air in. It feels like there is a terrible weight bearing down on his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

“And all the years in between?” he asks in a strangled voice.

She exhales slowly. “I had them then, too.”

Steve stares at her, at a loss for what to say. How many times in the past century has she woken up, screaming his name, and found herself alone in an empty bed? How many times has she startled awake next to a partner and been forced to pretend that she hadn’t been dreaming of someone else?

“Diana,” he breathes.

He watches her eyes flutter closed. He wraps an arm around her waist and brushes his other hand across her face. He can’t seem to get close enough to her, and he wonders if it’s because when they’re touching, she seems to unfurl. She had teased him last night about how talkative he is when he’s inside of her, but he is not the only one who opens up when they make love.

“What can I do?” he whispers.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t like that. “There must be something,” he says. “I don’t want you to have nightmares every night because of me.”

“They’re not because of you,” she says, finally looking him in the eye. “They’re just about you.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You can’t take responsibility for this, Steve,” she says firmly. “It will only make it worse for me.”

“I want to help you—”

“You can’t,” she says, her hands coming up to frame his face. “I’m sorry, love, but you can’t.”

It’s the first time she’s used that pet name. He likes it. But it doesn’t do much to assuage his frustration at feeling so helpless.

“You can’t blame yourself for this,” she murmurs, stroking his cheek. “Your guilt will make me want to hide it from you. To protect you.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Don’t hide things from me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But are you?”

She moves her hands down to his shoulders. “I’m trying not to. But I spent a century alone, Steve. I have tendencies now, habits that are hard to break.”

“Alone?” he repeats. “You told me there were others. People that you loved.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I said there were others that I shared a bed with. Others that I had some semblance of a relationship with. But I never stayed long enough to fall in love.”

His heart twists in his chest. He brushes his hand over her face again. “Why?”

She covers his hand with her own. “Because I didn’t want to lose anyone else the way I lost you.”

She leans closer to him, ducking her head, and he can’t resist the urge to bend forward and brush his lips over her forehead. “I didn’t want to feel that way ever again,” she whispers. “I still don’t.”

He kisses her forehead again. “You could lose me,” he whispers into her hairline.

She lifts her head, her nose brushing against his just before her lips graze over his. “I know,” she answers, draping her arms around his shoulders, pressing her body into his.

“If you walk away, you won’t have to. It'll be goodbye on your terms.”

She kisses him again softly, briefly. “I couldn’t walk away from you if I tried, Steve.”

She leans back a little, far enough for their eyes to meet again. He smoothes his hands along her hips, her towel soft against his palms. She scratches her nails lightly through the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she tells him quietly. “But that means the nightmares aren’t either. What happened last night will happen again, and it won’t be your fault. I need you to understand that. It’s not your burden to bear.”

He hates that. He wants to carry it for her, wants to give her nights that are filled with nothing but lovemaking and laughter and dreams about the future. But he can’t.

“Okay,” he says.

She searches his eyes as though she’s looking for hints of hesitation. “Okay?” she asks.

“Okay,” he repeats, squeezing her hips. “Just don’t shut me out when it happens again. When _anything_ happens.”

She doesn’t answer right away. He waits, watching her chew her bottom lip. “That won’t be easy for me,” she whispers at last. “You’ll need to be patient.”

“I’ll be whatever you need, Diana.” He pulls her closer and presses a kiss to her temple. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promises.

She nods, her fingertips gliding over the back of his neck. “Together,” she echoes.

* * *

Barry is the fastest man alive. (Alien or not, there is no way— _No. Way._ —that Clark is faster than him.) Because he is the fastest man alive, he likes to do things—spoiler alert— _really fast._

There is something about being with the League, though, that slows him down. He still races from place to place. He still does simple things as quickly as possible. But when he’s with the whole group, he finds himself moving slower. He doesn’t want time to go fast when he’s with them. He wants it to stretch, to last, to just keep going and going until he forgets what it’s like not to be surrounded by them.

Mornings are his favorite. He typically sleeps late. But he’d quickly learned that, of his new friends, Arthur was the only one who also slept in. Diana, without fail, was up with the sunrise. Bruce was often awake not long afterward. Clark was also an early riser, and Vic didn’t need to sleep at all. It only took a few times of hearing them say _This morning at breakfast_ for Barry to realize that they congregated in the kitchen in the mornings, and he was missing it because he was sleeping.

So, he started setting an alarm. The first morning he dragged himself down to the kitchen Diana was already there, sipping her tea. She had smiled at him in surprise when he shuffled in.

“You’re up early,” she said.

He shrugged and yawned. “Yeah. My body was just ready to get up I guess.”

She clearly did not believe him, but she did not argue. She just smiled at him in that knowing way she had and said, “I was going to make pancakes. Would you like some pancakes?”

For the remainder of the League’s time together under one roof, Barry had set an alarm so he could join them in the kitchen. It was the only time of day that he didn’t do a single thing faster than anybody else. He just sat in a chair at the table and sipped his coffee and ate his breakfast and listened. He liked listening to Bruce and Diana talk about current events, and Vic and Clark talk about sports. He liked when they asked him what he thought, and the way they all listened to him as if his opinion mattered.

He liked feeling like he had a family again.

The League is all under the same roof again, thanks to Steve. So Barry pulls himself out of bed at what feels like an ungodly hour after last night’s antics and wanders down to the kitchen. He is confused to find that he’s the first one there. Diana is almost always there first. But then he remembers Steve is back, and he grins and wonders if she’s even going to bother coming down at all. He makes his coffee and finds a chair and waits to see.

He hears their voices before he sees them. A moment later, Diana and Steve enter the kitchen. Their hands are tangled together, but when Steve sees Barry he lets go of her hand as nonchalantly as possible. Diana glances at Steve and smirks, and then turns her gaze to Barry.

“Good morning Barry,” she says. “Steve is going to make breakfast.”

She says it with a mischievous glint in her eye, and Steve looks slightly uncomfortable. “All I’m really capable of is eggs,” he says apologetically. “And most of the time I mess those up.”

Barry grins and nods at Diana. “You know she’s an unbelievable cook, right?”

Steve turns to her. “Really?”

“I manage,” she says modestly. She leans toward him, her voice low. “But you offered.”

“I did,” he sighs.

She puts her hand on his arm. “I’ll help.”

When Steve looks over at her, Barry smirks and thinks _Dude is the human equivalent of the heart eye emoji._

“Should I help too?” Barry asks.

“You’re on toast duty,” Diana answers, waving her hand at the toaster. Barry leaps to his feet to obey. Diana ushers Steve toward the fridge. “Get the eggs. There might be bacon in there too. Or sausage. Pull out whatever breakfast food you see. They tend to eat a lot.”

“Understatement,” Barry snorts.

Steve opens the fridge and studies the shelves as if he’s trying to solve a very complicated math problem. Barry grabs a loaf of bread, pops two slices into the toaster, and then turns back to Diana.

She glances at him over her shoulder as she fills the tea kettle. “How was the rest of last night?”

Barry grins. “I beat Clark in a race.”

“Did you now,” she says, smiling.

“Well, he’s going to tell you it was a tie,” Barry clarifies. “You shouldn’t believe him.”

“Do we eat fruit for breakfast?” Steve calls from behind the refrigerator door. There is a pile of egg cartons and breakfast meats on the counter behind him.

“Yes,” Diana calls back. She flicks the burner on beneath the kettle. “Did you end up beating Arthur?” she asks Barry.

Barry frowns. “Aquaman’s a dirty cheat.”

She laughs. “I’m shocked,” she says dryly.

The fridge door slams closed, leaving Steve standing before them with his arms full of fruit cartons. “Maybe my job should be to cut the fruit,” he says to Diana.

Diana crosses the kitchen and pulls the fruit from his hands. “You don’t have to cut blueberries and raspberries.”

“Strawberries,” he protests, waving a carton in her face.

“Barry can cut those, can’t you Barry?”

“For sure,” Barry says. He pulls a knife from the block on the counter and then takes the strawberries from Diana.

Steve narrows his eyes at Barry. “You’re always going to side with her, aren’t you?”

Barry grins as he walks around to the other side of the kitchen island. “Would _you_ side against Wonder Woman?”

“No,” Steve grumbles.

Diana leans forward and kisses Steve on the cheek. “Better not,” she murmurs.

Steve turns a bright shade of red. Diana smiles and winks at Barry, clearly amused by Steve’s embarrassment. Before Barry can tease Steve about it, Clark and Vic enter. Diana transfers toast duty to Vic, and sets Clark to work on cooking the bacon and the sausage. She positions Steve at the stove next to Clark, hands him a spatula, and then starts cracking eggs into the skillet with her shoulder pressed against his.

They all work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. When Barry looks up at the stove while opening a new carton of strawberries, it’s just in time to see Clark lean toward Steve, sniff, and then say quietly, “You smell like flowers.”

“Yes I do,” Steve says matter-of-factly. There is, to Barry’s surprise, no embarrassment in his voice—though the back of his neck does look a little red.

“It’s nice,” Clark says kindly, turning back to the bacon.

“Thanks,” Steve says, his head still bent over the eggs.

“Hey, Clark, did you see the Steelers franchise tagged Morrison?” Vic asks from his position by the toaster. He’s too far away to have heard the exchange about Steve smelling like flowers.

“Seriously?” Clark says, turning to look at Vic.

“Yep.”

A football discussion ensues, but Barry does not pay attention. He’s distracted because Diana is smiling a wide and delighted smile the likes of which he has never seen. He only sees it for a second—Diana puts a hand over her mouth to hide it. Steve turns his face toward her and says something, his voice a low drone, but Barry can’t make out the words over Clark’s voice. Diana shakes her head, still grinning, and then she leans toward Steve, slips her hand briefly into the back pocket of his jeans, and murmurs something back to him.

Barry leans across the island counter and _psssts_ at Diana. She turns to look at him as she pulls her hand from Steve’s pocket.

“Do you think you two could be less adorable?” he says. “You’re triggering those of us who are painfully single.”

“You are only single because you refuse to ask out Iris,” Diana says.

Steve turns around. “Who’s Iris?”

“Never mind,” Barry says, flushing. He motions between them with the knife. “Go ahead and continue being relationship goals.”

Steve frowns. “Relationship goals?”

Diana smiles. “I’ll explain later.”

Alfred enters a short while later, and makes a joke about his job becoming irrelevant. Bruce enters not long after and beelines for the coffeemaker. After he’s had a few sips, Diana asks him to set the table. He does. Soon, the table is covered in food and everyone is sitting, eating, laughing, and Barry grins at them all from the end of the table and thinks _God I missed this._

When Arthur stumbles in, everyone smirks. “Which one of you assholes set the alarm clock in my room?” he demands. “Not you,” he says to Diana when she arches an eyebrow at his language.

Bruce smirks into his mug.

“You look a little worse for the wear,” Vic says, grinning.

“Creature from the black lagoon,” Barry adds in a low voice. Vic snorts and gives him a fist bump.

Arthur glowers at them grumpily. Clark lifts a plate that still has a few eggs on it, heat visions them to a sizzle, and then holds it out to Arthur. “Eggs are still warm.”

Arthur takes the plate, flops into a chair, and starts shoveling the food into his mouth.

“Well since we’re all here,” Bruce says, still smirking. Clark heat visions a few slices of bacon and slides them onto the corner of Arthur’s plate.

“Careful you don’t lose a finger there, Clark,” Vic says.

“Maybe we should call him piranha man,” Barry chortles.

Arthur points his fork at them. “Imma smack those smirks off your faces when I’m awake.”

“Hush you three,” Diana says. “Bruce is talking.”

Arthur shovels some bacon into his mouth, and Barry and Vic go silent.

“We’ll leave in an hour,” Bruce says into the newly established quiet. “Make sure you pack for tomorrow too.”

“Tomorrow?” Clark asks. “Are we staying the night?”

Bruce shrugs. “I didn’t figure you guys would want to fly back after the game.”

“The _game_?” Barry squeals, hopping to his feet.“You got us a suite for the Georgetown game?”

“Alfred got you a suite for the game,” Bruce says, nodding at the older man. “And some suites at a hotel for the night.”

“With Master Wayne’s credit card,” Alfred says dryly.

Barry leaps onto the seat of his chair and does his finest impression of the cha-cha. “Best day of my life, hey! Best day of my life, hey!”

“This is going to be so badass,” Vic says excitedly, leaning toward Steve.

“Barry please don’t fall and break the table,” Diana says.

“I think he got all the clumsiness out of his system last night,” Arthur snorts into his bacon.

Barry freezes and levels Arthur with a glare. “Jackass.”

“It’s too early for that language,” Diana says to him pointedly, getting to her feet. “You heard Bruce, everyone. We leave in an hour. Come on.” Everyone rises obediently from the table. Diana points at Barry. “Dish duty.”

“What?” Barry exclaims. “Arthur cussed too!”

“Arthur is going to take out the trash,” Diana says.

Arthur glowers at her. Diana stares back at him, unimpressed. Arthur rises from his chair and shuffles toward the trashcan, mumbling under his breath about freezing his trident off in the snow.

* * *

About halfway to D.C., Steve finds himself alone with Bruce in the control room of the Flying Fox.

Bruce was not in the room when Diana first brought Steve in to show him how the Fox worked. It was Alfred who was piloting the massive machine instead. The older man had seemed more than happy to explain how everything worked, and Steve could both see and feel Diana smiling at him while he asked questions. (She seems to like when he is curious. He thinks it’s because she remembers having so many questions herself. Sometimes he asks questions just so that she’ll smile at him. He likes her smile.)

The situation changed pretty fast after that. Diana had excused herself to make a few calls to Paris, and then Bruce had come in, and then Alfred had handed over the controls to use the bathroom, and now Steve is alone with his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend who is dressed like a bat, and it’s all very awkward.

“I’ve got something for you,” Bruce says gruffly into the silence.

Steve looks at him in surprise, and barely manages to swallow the words, _Is it a punch in the face for stealing Diana?_

Bruce holds out a folder not unlike the one he’d passed out to the League that contained Steve’s dossier. Steve opens it and stares at the stack of papers inside.

“It’s everything you’ll need for when you go to Paris with Diana,” Bruce explains. “Birth certificate, social security card, passport, driver’s license. There’s a bank account open in your name in Paris, and a credit card with a credit history. Plenty of money in both accounts to hold you over until A.R.G.U.S. starts writing you checks.”

Steve blinks up at him. Bruce holds out another sheet of paper. “There’s also this.”

Steve takes it. It’s a picture of what appears to be a suit that’s a cross between Bruce’s and Barry’s—all black with some red details along the chest, shoulders, and thighs.

“It’s just a prototype,” Bruce says. “We can make any alterations you want, and we can design a weapon you’ll be comfortable with. Maybe a specialized type of gun. We’ve got some time for all that. But I figured Diana might feel a little better about all this if she knew you were going to be covered head to toe in kevlar.”

When Steve looks up at Bruce again he finds that the billionaire is smirking a little bit, as if he’s intimately familiar with the way that Diana worries. He probably is, Steve realizes. All of the other members of the League have powers, but Bruce is just a man. He is a brilliant man who, based on the videos Steve has seen, is an extraordinary fighter. But he is still just a man. Steve is certain that when Bruce and Diana were not-quite-together, she probably worried over his safety.

Steve straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath. There is something he needs to say.

“You know of all the people I’ve met since Barry ran me here, you’re the one who had the fewest reasons to help me. And yet somehow you’re the one who’s doing the most.”

Bruce isn’t smirking anymore. Steve thinks about how it felt to see Diana in Bruce’s arms, and how it feels to know that if he’d stayed dead, Diana may very well have ended up letting herself fall in love with Bruce.

“If our situations were reversed,” Steve adds, “I don’t think I’d be as generous as you’ve been.”

Bruce smirks again. “Yeah you would,” he says. “That’s why she loves you.”

Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. In the long run Steve knows it doesn’t really matter, because he’ll never have to find out what it’s like to lose Diana to someone else.

He also knows that he respects the hell out of Bruce Wayne.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “For everything.” He holds out his hand. “It’s a hell of an honor to work with you, Bruce.”

Bruce nods and shakes Steve’s hand. “Likewise.”

* * *

If Amanda Waller had the same talents as The Flash, she knows exactly what she would do with them. She would run back in time to the moment when she came up with that godforsaken Suicide Squad plan, grab her past self by the shoulders, shake her hard, and tell her _Don’t do it you moron._ And then she’d steal herself a massive bottle of Black Bull whisky and call it a goddamn day.

It was that boneheaded Suicide Squad decision that made all of this possible. It had made people question her ability to lead A.R.G.U.S. It had pissed off Harley and The Joker and a host of other very dangerous, very crazy people. It had led her to fixate on using the League’s spotless reputation as a way to clean up her own, which made her desperate enough to plant bugs in the Batcave and dumb enough to threaten Wonder Woman.

Technically, Amanda has gotten what she wants. She is currently sitting at a conference table in A.R.G.U.S. headquarters across from all the members of the Justice League. The Flash is here, fidgety and clearly uncomfortable. Aquaman is broody and dangerous looking. Cyborg is gleaming and impressive and Superman looks both regal and powerful. Batman, as usual, looks dark and gruff.

And then there’s the bane of Amanda’s existence as of late: Captain Steve Trevor. He’s not a bad looking guy, if you’re into that whole bright-eyed, well-defined, GQ look. He carries himself exactly as she expects a spy to: confident and alert, with the kind of easy athleticism that makes every movement look smooth. He is clearly curious about her, since he has openly sized her up multiple times. He’s also clearly made an impression on the other members of the League, since they all seem to narrow their eyes at her every time she returns one of Trevor’s appraisals.

Nobody, though, is watching her more closely than Wonder Woman.

Trevor is seated between Wonder Woman and Superman. Amanda has a feeling that is not accidental, since they are arguably the two most powerful members of the League. Wonder Woman’s body is turned slightly toward her captain. Her expression is neutral, and her body language appears relaxed and casual, but Amanda is not fooled. She can sense the energy thrumming just beneath the other woman’s skin, the coiled muscles that are ready to spring. She’s about as relaxed as a predator that’s spotted its prey, and Amanda knows that it would only take one wrong move for her life to end very, very quickly.

By the time Batman is finished presenting his proposal, prey is exactly what Amanda feels like. She has been studied, baited, and cornered perfectly. Batman’s counteroffer isn’t just strategic, it’s brilliant. She can have what she wants but only with restrictions and limitations, only with the same type of accountability guardrails that they will be subjected to, and only if she agrees to let Captain GQ join her organization as an agent that she will have zero control over. It’s the kind of proposal that makes her want to flip the table and demand to know if they realize who, exactly, they are trying to fuck with.

It’s also the only way she can use them to get what she wants. She has no choice but to accept their offer or lose them to one of her rival agencies.

Checkmate.

Eventually she’s going to agree to their demands. But that doesn’t mean she can’t be as bitchy as possible during the negotiation to make herself feel better.

“So let me get this straight,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “You want me to hire someone whose last foray into the field was a century ago?”

“Quite a bit has changed since 1918,” Trevor says coolly. “But people are the same. Representing the League and your agency will require a very specific set of people skills. And nobody reads and handles people better than I do.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Amanda can see The Flash grinning like a damn idiot.

She ignores him and surveys Trevor. His elbows are on the table, and he looks completely unbothered by the fact that he’s surrounded by superheroes and negotiating for a position with a clandestine government organization that others have spent years trying and failing to get a job with. Amanda can’t help but be a little impressed with him, even if she is mad as hell.

_Not hard to see why Wonder Woman took a liking to him,_ she thinks. Superman may be the Man of Steel, but Trevor seems to be made of it too.

“That may be true, Captain Trevor,” Amanda says, “but people skills are not the only skills you will need.”

“You’ve seen his file,” Batman says. “His marksmanship scores. His combat training and strategic thinking evaluations. You could put him in a ring or a simulator with any of your agents and I’m confident he’d more than hold his own.”

“And technology?” Amanda asks. “Does he even know what the internet is?”

“Heck yeah he does,” The Flash says, sounding indignant.

Amanda smirks at the speedster. He seems to shrink back a little in his chair. When Amanda looks away her eyes happen to fall on Wonder Woman, and she immediately remembers how their last conversation ended. _Stay away from The Flash. He’s mine too._ Wonder Woman seems to be remembering it too. The goddess’s expression makes the smirk slide right off Amanda’s face.

“Technology won’t be a problem,” Cyborg speaks up. “I happen to know a thing or two about it. I’ll teach him whatever he needs to know.”

“I’m a quick study,” Trevor adds. He punctuates it with a roguish smile.

“He’ll need some time to catch up before he officially starts in the field,” Batman says. “Two months would suffice, I think. But other than that, he would start effective immediately.”

“And will you be working out of an A.R.G.U.S. office?” Amanda asks Trevor.

“He’ll be working remotely,” Wonder Woman answers.

“Remotely from where?” Amanda presses.

Wonder Woman smiles, but even that looks like a threat. “Wherever suits him.”

The two women stare each other down. There is clear dislike in Wonder Woman’s eyes, and Waller leans into it because she can’t resist.

“I imagine that would be wherever you are, right?” she asks. She gestures at the other members of the League. “I hope you’ve told them about the true nature of your relationship with Captain Trevor. Personally, I think it’s a bit unprofessional to ask your teammates to put their lives and reputations in the hands of an unqualified former spy just because he’s good in bed.”

For a moment, Amanda thinks she’s gone too far. Wonder Woman’s eyes flash in fury. Trevor straightens in his chair, indignant, and Batman looks as though he might lunge across the table at her. But then, on the far end of the table, Aquaman laughs.

It is a loud, throaty, bark of a laugh. Everyone’s eyes turn toward him, but his gaze is fixed on Amanda.

“That’s rich coming from you, lady,” he says. “You put nano bombs in people’s heads. You sent The Flash back in time to pull Trevor off a plane just so you could use him as a pawn in your political chess bullshit. You threatened Wonder Woman when she refused to play your stupid game. You planted bugs in the Batcave to spy on us after we just got done saving your ass from an army of aliens. And now you’re sitting there tossing around words like _unprofessional_?”

He leans forward, his fingers curling around his trident. “You don’t even belong in the same building as her, let alone at the same damn table. So watch your mouth. Or I’ll watch it for you.”

There is a brief, very uncomfortable silence. Superman breaks it.

“I’m sure they’d be happy to fill out whatever HR forms you need them to,” he says dryly.

At the other end of the table, The Flash snorts. Cyborg is trying and failing not to grin.

“But if it bothers you that much,” Superman continues, “we’re happy to make the journey down the street to visit the Department of Homeland Security. I’ve got a few friends there who’d be happy to see us and probably wouldn’t care what two consenting adults do in their free time.”

Amanda knows when she’s beaten. She also knows when she needs to get out of a situation before it turns ugly, and the way Batman is still glowering at her says that _ugly_ isn’t that far off.

She rises to her feet. “I’ll take your proposal to my superiors,” she says. “If at all possible, please stay in town. They may have questions for you.”

If Amanda knows when she’s beaten, Wonder Woman knows when she’s won. She smirks up at Amanda. “We’d be happy to stay in town as long as you need, Director.”

“Yep,” The Flash says gleefully. “Happy to.”

Amanda leaves before she’s tempted to say something else that will piss off Wonder Woman.


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings. Thank you again for all your comments. They are both kind and thoughtful, and I so love reading them.

Diana is accustomed to wealth.

She works at the Louvre, and part of her job is smiling and drinking champagne with inordinately wealthy people like Bruce in the hope that they will donate to her department. (They always do.) She is also, if she’s being honest, rather wealthy herself. She’s not in the same category as Bruce, but she’s got plenty of money—more than enough to indulge her fondness for Prada and Burberry and Gucci, more than enough to outright own an apartment in Paris and a few other properties around the world, and more than enough to furnish said properties with the kind of exquisite artwork that wouldn’t be out of place in the Louvre.

So, after they leave their meeting with Waller and head back to the suites that Alfred booked for them at the Four Seasons, she doesn’t really think much of it.

Steve, on the other hand, does.

“Holy shit,” he says, staring around the entryway of their suite in wonder. He wanders into the next room and whistles. Diana shuts the door behind her and follows him, and she’s just in time to hear him say, “Holy _shit_ ,” again.

He turns to look at her with wide eyes. “Is this a hotel or a palace?” he asks.

She smiles. “I suppose it could be considered both.”

Steve gazes out the windows at the view. “No kidding,” he says. “Bruce must be richer than Midas.”

Diana sets her purse and her coat down on a nearby chair. “He is very wealthy, yes.” She checks her phone to make sure she hasn’t missed any calls from work, and then she sets it next to her purse.

When she looks back up at Steve, she finds that he’s scrutinizing her instead of the suite. It’s the kind of look that makes her feel as though she’s one of his marks, as if he’s got her under a microscope and is trying to figure out how she ticks.

She tilts her head at him. “What?”

“You look like you were born to be in places like this.”

Diana glances down at herself. She is wearing a dress—nothing fancy, just a simple blue sheath that she put on after taking her armor off. She hadn’t even thought twice about it. She usually wears dresses. But Steve, she realizes belatedly, wouldn’t know that. Since Barry brought him back, he has only seen her in pants.

She wonders idly what he would’ve thought if she’d put on a pair of heels instead of flats.

“I usually wear dresses,” she tells him. “They’re comfortable. I wasn’t trying to impress.”

“Well, you pretty much do that without trying,” he says. His eyes are lingering on her legs. He seems to like her legs. “But I didn’t mean the dress. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely helps. But it’s just...I don’t know, it’s just you.” He waves around the room. “You carry yourself like you belong in places like this.”

She thinks she can hear just the faintest hint of unease in his voice. “And you don’t?” she asks.

He smiles crookedly. “I’m a spy. I’m great at _acting_ like I belong in places like this. But I was born and raised in Ohio, Diana. On a farm. I’m a soldier. I’m more comfortable drinking in the woods with a bunch of guys in t-shirts than in places like this.”

Now she can feel the unease sitting in her chest too. They’ve always been from different worlds. It doesn’t get much more different than Themyscira and the world of man. But after a hundred years away from home, she feels more a part of man’s world than a part of Themyscira. That should give her _more_ in common with Steve. Instead, she feels as though they’re standing on opposite sides of yet another chasm of difference.

She doesn’t like that.

She crosses the room and stops before him. “Take your shirt off,” she orders.

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Take your shirt off,” she repeats, smiling at the look on his face.

He starts to unbutton his shirt and grins. “Are you planning to steal my virtue?”

“I’m always planning to steal your virtue,” she teases.

He finishes with the buttons of his shirt, and holds his arms out. “Okay. What now?”

His abs are flexed with his movement, firm and inviting, but she ignores them. She turns her back to him. “Unzip my dress.”

“Well, if you insist,” he says.

His fingers close immediately around the zipper that’s resting on the back of her neck, and he pulls it down slowly. He brushes his fingertips over the base of her spine. Desire spikes in her blood, but she ignores it and turns to face him. She shimmies out of her dress, tosses it to the side, and then holds out her hand.

“Give me your shirt.”

He obeys automatically, but his eyes are glued to her body. She isn’t wearing anything close to what she wore for him last night, but her undergarments are a very vivid shade of red. She makes a mental note that for their first night in Paris, she should wear red.

She puts her arms through the sleeves of his shirt and starts to button it up. Steve frowns. “No,” he says sadly. “No, don’t do that.”

She smirks, turns on her heel, and walks away from him.

“Wait,” he says, tripping after her.

She wanders through the suite with Steve a step behind until she finds the mini bar. She scans the contents. “Here,” she says, holding a small bottle of Jack Daniels out to him. She fills his arms with a variety of the snacks that are there too, but keeps the small bottle of Chardonnay for herself.

When she straightens and then brushes past him, he looks at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Come on,” she says to him.

She heads back to the living room, and he follows her obediently. She plops down on the couch, one of her legs bent beneath her body, and opens the bottle of Chardonnay. He stands next to the couch with his arms still full, his eyebrows still furrowed. When she wraps her lips around the bottle and tips it back to take a sip, his confused frown smoothes into something else. She smirks.

“You going to stand and stare, or are you going to sit and have a drink?”

He spills the snacks onto the coffee table and then sits next to her. She leans back against the armrest of the couch and drapes her legs over his thighs. He stops trying to open the Jack Daniels and brushes his hand along her calf and up to her knee, where he circles her kneecap. She smiles, takes the forgotten Jack from his hand, opens it, and hands it back. He lifts his eyebrows at her.

“I’m not a guy,” she says in response to his unspoken question. “We are not in the woods, and this is not really a t-shirt. But it is a shirt, and we are drinking. So.” She lifts a shoulder. “We’re at least a little closer to where you’re comfortable.”

He grins at her. He does not say _I love you,_ but he doesn’t need to. She can see it clearly on his face.

She sips her wine. “Tell me about Ohio.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks, sipping his Jack.

She smiles. “Everything.”

He doesn’t tell her everything, of course. There isn’t time—the basketball game is in a few hours, and they’re supposed to meet everyone in the lobby of the hotel before it starts. But he does tell her a lot.

He talks about his family, and his friends, and the apple tree in the front yard that he climbed as a boy. He winces when he remembers the first time he rode a horse by himself because he fell off and broke his arm. He tells her about the first girl he ever kissed, and the first time he shot a gun. He smirks when he tells her about how he got kicked out of school once, and she laughs and laughs at the sheer audacity of him, even as a child. Through it all she imagines a young boy with tan skin and bright eyes and a shock of blond hair, and she loves him so fiercely that her bones seem to vibrate with it.

Not all of his stories are happy. She hadn’t realized how much death he had seen, even before the war. When he talks about losing his family he is quiet but not overcome. It’s the kind of grief that she’s intimately familiar with, the kind that scars over and heals with time but still occasionally throbs. When his words die off, he stares down at the bottle of Jack. He looks tired and sad, just a bit too much like the young boy she’d been imagining, and she can’t stand it.

She moves toward him, folding herself into his side, and he lifts his arm and drapes it around her. She traces a jagged scar that’s on his chest. She wants to ask him where he got it, but she is afraid it will be another sad story.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him quietly.

He nods.

“Was the funeral the last time you were home?” she asks.

He nods again. “Yeah. It was like you said about London—there were just too many ghosts.” He rubs his thumb over the mouth of the Jack Daniels bottle. “Once I got to London, though, I started dreaming about going back. I think I would have if I’d made it through the war.”

Even now, pressed against his warm and very much alive body, her heart still hurts at the mention of his death. “You did make it through,” she says. “Just later than you planned.”

When she looks up at him, he is smiling softly. The shadows of grief are gone from his eyes. “I guess I could go back now,” he says. “See how much has changed.”

She nods. “You should.”

“Will you come with me?”

Her heart flips in her chest. “If you want me to.”

He nods. “I do.”

“Then I will,” she promises. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll take off work, and we can stay as long as you want.”

He watches her for a moment, his eyes fixed intently on hers, and then he leans forward and presses his lips against hers. It is chaste, soft, and almost unbearably sweet. When their lips part he lingers, his face close to hers, their foreheads brushing.

“I love you,” he says.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of hearing that. “I love you too,” she murmurs.

He leans forward again, kisses her again. “I mean it,” he says when he pulls away.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

For a moment, she is confused by his question. And then she remembers what he said about his family—that he didn’t realize when he said goodbye that it was the _last_ goodbye. From what Diana knows about his life—and what she can guess, based on the fact that he was a soldier in the middle of a war where millions lost their lives—he has been conditioned to treat every moment as if it might be his last. Even in the middle of a lavish suite at the Four Seasons, in the same building as a league of very powerful superheroes, he feels compelled to tell her how he feels in case something terrible happens and he does not get another chance. Her heart aches for him.

“Steve,” she says, pressing her hand against his chest. She looks him in the eye. “Yes. I know.”

“I want to prove it,” he says earnestly.

She shakes her head. “You don’t need to.”

“But I _want_ to. The social norms of the 21st century seem a little weird to me, but romantic gestures can’t be _that_ different, right?”

“Romantic gestures?” she repeats, helpless against a smile.

He blushes just a little. “Hey, farm boys from Ohio can be romantic.”

“I think you’re very romantic,” she says indulgently, and although she does think he can be, she cannot help but smile a little wider because he is also—well, he’s also just _not._

“That sounds like a challenge,” he tells her. “Are you issuing me a challenge?”

“I would never,” she says, shaking her head in mock seriousness.

“I could buy you something pretty. Or expensive. Or both.”

“With all that money you’ve got from that job you don’t have yet?” she teases.

He narrows his eyes at her. “Fine. I could make you dinner. We could eat it under the stars.”

“Dinner,” she echoes. “Like...scrambled eggs?”

“You’re the worst _,_ ” he says, but he is smiling. _You’re the worst_ is a phrase that Barry says constantly, and Diana is completely charmed by the fact that Steve has picked it up.  

“I don’t need to be wooed, Steve,” she says, brushing her fingers through his hair.

“Sure you do. Grandpa Trevor used to say every woman wants to be wooed.”

“Well if Grandpa Trevor said so,” Diana says, smiling.

“What about flowers?” he asks, undeterred by her teasing. “Do you like flowers?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“What about...” He scrunches his nose. “Poetry?”

She laughs and taps her index finger on his nose. “You do not strike me as a poetry man.”

“I could write you a poem,” he says indignantly. “I could write you a _great_ poem.”

“All right then,” she says. “Go on.”

He clears his throat. “Roses are red—”

“Cheater,” she cuts him off, laughing again.

He harrumphs at her, and then frowns in concentration. She waits. An idea seems to strike him suddenly—his forehead smoothes out, and he turns his head toward her slowly. “I carry your heart with me.”

“e.e. cummings,” she says, impressed. “Still cheating, but much better.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I have,” she says. “And so have you, apparently. I’m a little surprised.”

He shrugs. “I am a man of many talents.”

“Yes, you are,” she murmurs.

She didn’t mean for it to come out that way. She didn’t mean to glance at his lips, either. But it did, and she did, and now he is leaning toward her, his eyes on her lips too, and she doesn’t even hesitate.

She threads her fingers through his hair, leans forward, and kisses him. It is deeper than his kisses were, and full of a promise she intends to keep. She’s not sure if he pulls her into his lap or if she climbs there on her own but suddenly she’s there, and his hands are buried in her hair, and she is tugging on the buckle of his belt and wondering how they managed to be alone for so long without this happening sooner.

On the other side of the room, her phone rings. Diana pulls back from Steve’s lips, her fingers going still on his belt, but he chases her mouth.

“Don’t answer it,” he says.

She doesn’t want to. “I should,” she says anyway.

“You should stay here,” he counters. And then, “I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, his voice dropping low.

“Well in that case,” she says, smiling.

Her phone stops ringing. It does not ring again, as it would if there was an emergency, so she goes back to work on his belt. She unbuckles it, unbuttons and unzips his pants, and then another ring—this time much closer—startles them both.

Their lips part with a surprised _pop._ Steve frowns up at her. “What the hell was that?” he says.

Another ring. Diana looks down. It’s coming from his pants. “Your phone,” she realizes, laughing.

He looks down at his pants. “My phone?” he repeats, confused. His eyes widen. “Oh, _my_ phone. I have a phone. Right.”

He lifts his hips to pull his phone out of his pocket, his arm wrapping around her to keep her in place. They bend their heads together over the screen. _Barry Allen,_ it reads over a very ridiculous selfie of the speedster grinning like a maniac.

“Nope,” Steve says, dropping the phone onto the cushion next to him.

“Steve,” Diana protests. “I bet that’s who called me. It could be important.”

“ _This_ is important,” he says, leaning forward to suck on her neck. “Very important,” he adds, his teeth scraping none too gently over her skin.

“Mhmm,” Diana murmurs, leaning closer to him. She reaches down, curls her fingers around his phone, and then slides it unlocked and puts it to her ear. “Hello?”

Steve jolts back from her neck looking indignant. “Traitor,” he hisses.

“Sorry,” she mouths.

“Diana?” Barry’s voice says on the other end of the line. “What, you guys answer each other’s phones now? Are you _trying_ to make me feel bad about my relationship status? Also, why can you answer Steve’s phone and not your own?”

Steve begins to skim his hands lightly along her bare thighs. He goes back to sucking on her neck, and Diana closes her eyes. “Sorry,” she says to Barry. “I left mine in the other room.” It comes out a little more breathless than she meant it to.

“Why are you out of breath?” Barry asks.

“I’m not.”

The volume on Steve’s phone is up so loud that apparently he can hear Barry on the other end of the line. “You will be,” Steve murmurs to her.

Apparently Barry can hear Steve too. “Is that Steve?” he asks.

“No, just the TV,” Diana lies. Steve grins into her skin and then sucks harder. “What do you need, Barry?” she asks.

“I got you and Steve presents.”

“Presents?”

“Yeah. See, I was thinking that—”

Diana has no idea what he says after that. Steve’s hands are high on the insides of her thighs—too high—and his fingers are brushing a little too close to home, and if he hits home she is _definitely_ going to moan into the phone and traumatize poor Barry.

So, she yanks hard on Steve’s hair. He glances up at her. She gives him a look, and points at the phone _._ He holds his hands up in surrender. She nods in approval. He smirks a little and reaches out to smooth the collar of his shirt, which she’s still wearing, beneath his fingers. She arches an eyebrow at him. His smirk deepens, and he moves his hands down to the top button of the shirt.

“Hang up the phone,” he mouths to her.

She shakes her head. “Mhmm,” she says to Barry, who is still talking.

Steve leans forward and trails his tongue up her neck. “Hang up the phone,” he whispers into the ear that isn’t covered by his phone.

She strokes her fingers down his back but does not do as he asks. He undoes her top button and moves his mouth down her neck.

“Diana?” Barry asks.

“What?” she answers, tilting her head to give Steve better access.

“I said, are you in your room? Can I bring them up?”

Diana frowns. “Bring what up?”

“The shirts.”

Another button undone. She’s finding it very hard to concentrate. “What shirts?” she says, digging her nails into Steve’s shoulder.

Barry groans on the other end of the line. Steve moves his mouth across her collarbone, and Diana feels like groaning herself. “Are you even listening to me?” Barry complains.

“Of course I’m listening,” she says, closing her eyes again.

“I bought you guys Georgetown shirts. Cause you probably don’t have any. Right?”

“Right,” Diana agrees. She should probably get up off of the couch, off of Steve, and put some distance between them. She does not move. His mouth moves lower.

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure about sizes so I just guessed.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

“Okay, cool. I’m going to bring them up to your room now. So you can change before we leave.”

“Now?” Diana says, her eyes snapping open.

“Dude, why are you being so weird? What are you...oh my god, are you guys…?”

“No,” Diana says immediately.

“Yes,” Steve whispers into the valley of her chest. The buttons are all undone. He pulls his head back, spreads the shirt open, and the admiring look he gives her revealed body sends a shock of lust right through her system.

“Are you sure?” Barry asks suspiciously.

“Yes,” Diana tells him. She puts her fingers under Steve’s chin and lifts his face so that he has to look her in the eye. “I was just about to get in the shower, but Steve is here. You can come up and give them to him,” she tells them both.

Steve pouts, and then there’s a sudden glint in his eye. He slides his hands around her sides and then up her back, trying to find the clasp of her bra.

“Okay, tell him I’ll see him in a flash,” Barry says. He snorts at his own joke, and then the line is disconnected.

Steve frowns, his hands pawing at the back of her bra. “Where…?”

Diana smirks as she lowers his phone from her ear. She taps the front clasp of her bra. “Here,” she says.

Steve’s eyes go wide. Before he can reach for the clasp, though, Diana puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes herself up onto her feet.

“No,” Steve says, rising up quickly after her. “You can’t just—”

Diana rolls her shoulders back and the shirt slides off. She catches it before it hits the floor. Steve stares at her. “Oh,” he says. “You can definitely do that.”

“Put it on so you don’t traumatize him,” she says, holding the shirt out to him. “He bought you a Georgetown t-shirt because he didn’t want you to feel left out. Which is very sweet, so make sure you are appreciative.”

There’s a pattern of knocks on the front door. Steve sighs and takes the shirt from her. “Sweet or not, I may kill him for interrupting us.”

“Sounds messy,” Diana says. “I won’t let you in bed if you’re messy.”

Steve blinks at her. Diana smirks and saunters toward the bedroom. “You told him you were getting in the shower,” Steve calls out after her.

“I lied,” she says, looking at him over her shoulder. “I’ll be in bed. Waiting.”

“Waiting?” Steve says hopefully.

“We don’t have much time, so I’ll start without you if you take too long,” she says, arching an eyebrow.

Steve looks as though he may keel over. Another pattern of knocks, louder this time, and he groans in frustration.

“Better get the door,” she says, laughing.

Steve swears under his breath, something that ends along the lines of _damn Flash,_ and yanks his shirt on forcefully as he heads for the door.

Once inside the bedroom, Diana reclines across the bed and listens to their conversation with a smile. Barry is excited, insisting that Steve try his shirt on. Steve agrees reluctantly. Barry launches into a very long story about how he couldn’t decide between the shirt he’d bought and another one, and Diana can hear Steve saying _Oh really?_ and _Yeah, definitely_ and _No, this one is great, thank you._ She’s glad he’s being polite. But she is also starting to feel a little...impatient? Needy?

She wants him.

Badly.  

It was not an exaggeration when she told him last night that she’s pretty much always thinking about being with him. This morning on the Fox, when Barry was demonstrating how to take a selfie, Steve had looked over at her and grinned. That’s all it took, a grin, and she’d felt a sharp twinge in her middle and immediately thought _If we were alone right now I’d kiss you so hard you’d forget your own name._

The unbidden thought had stunned her, especially when she realized that it wasn’t the first time she’d had one like it. Since the moment she first whispered that she loved him, she has spent an excessive amount of time either making love to him or thinking about making love to him. Many of their conversations end up descending into suggestions and innuendos. Every time they made eye contact last night while drinking and laughing with the League, she saw the same desire in his eyes that was throbbing in her veins. At breakfast this morning he slung his arm around the back of her chair, and she put her hand on his knee beneath the table, and it was casual and comfortable and innocent and she’d still somehow spent most of the meal trying not to fantasize about kicking everyone out of the kitchen and having her way with him on the table.

She’s never wanted anyone like this before. She’s had plenty of lovers. She enjoys sex. But it never felt like a _need_ until Steve crashed back into her life. She is startled by the intensity of it. Why are they so desperate for each other? Why is it so constant, so all-consuming, so insatiable? How long will they be this way? He had told her he would always want her like this, but surely a year from now, or two, or ten, they won’t still be making love so often, so much.

Right?

She has such an obviously physical reaction to him that she can’t help but wonder if that’s all it is—just raw, physical attraction that will die out with time. Maybe he just likes her legs, and she just likes his abs, and they just like the way they fit together. Maybe the sex is just about, well, sex.

Even as the thought crosses her mind, she knows it’s not right. Her desire for him is more nuanced than that. Yes, she wants him because he is muscled and strong and achingly handsome. Yes, she wants him because one of his many talents seems to be getting her off. Being with him feels good, plain and simple.

But there’s more to it than that. Despite a century of her successfully keeping everyone and everything at arm’s length, Steve has managed to slip right past her defenses and take up residence in the deepest part of her heart. She’s in love with him, and she has never been in love with a partner, and it’s changing the way she experiences sex. Every time they come together, it’s an emotional connection as much as a physical one. It’s as if her very soul unfurls in time with her body, as if her choice to let him inside of her is just a representation of what’s already happening within heart.

Steve appears in the bedroom doorway. He leans against the doorframe and smiles at her, and Diana feels all the tension that’s been building in her chest slide right out of her.

She smiles back at him. “Nice shirt.”

He looks down at the blue t-shirt he’s wearing. It has the words _Georgetown Basketball_ emblazoned across his chest in gray. “You like it?”

“Yes. It brings out your eyes.”

He holds up another shirt. “He got you one too.”

“Would you like me to put it on?” she asks.

He shakes his head, his eyes traveling over her barely covered body. “No.”

She waits until he meets her gaze again. “I was thinking about what you said,” she tells him. “About wanting to prove it to me.”

“Yeah?” he says. His voice is a low husk, and goosebumps race over her skin like wildfire.

“Yeah,” she echoes. “And I think I’d like to prove it to you too.”

“I’m okay with that,” he says, nodding fervently. “I’m _more_ than okay with that.”

“Come here then,” she orders, crooking her finger at him. “I have some ideas.”

* * *

Afterward, Steve seems unable to move.

Diana is quite pleased with herself. He’s been rather adamant about making their time together as much about her as possible. Even last night, while she was wearing that black lace lingerie that she’d bought specifically for him, he had managed to make it about her and them instead of just himself as she’d intended.

She’s not a fool. She knows why. Even one hundred years later, she can still remember his horrified reaction when she told him that, thanks to Clio, she believed men to be unnecessary. They have not discussed Clio since that night in Veld when Diana admitted that perhaps the treatises weren’t totally accurate, but that doesn’t mean Steve hasn’t been thinking about it. He is generous and selfless, but he is also a man. A proud one at that. He wants to be necessary for her, and he has pursued that desire with the kind of dogged determination that seems to characterize everything he does. She’s not complaining. She likes that he’s determined to please her. He’s good at it.

But she is also good at pleasing him. She is _very_ good at it. She knows this because he just told her repeatedly that she was, his voice a low and desperate chant that was laced with expletives and her name.

Now, he is sprawled across the bed on his back with his head tipped toward the ceiling and his eyes closed. His breathing is slowing, but his chest is still rising and falling a step faster than normal. There is a sheen of perspiration on his skin. Diana leans forward and kisses the sweat-slicked scar on his chest. His body twitches beneath her mouth.

“God,” he groans.

“Goddess,” she corrects.

He chuckles, a deep rumble that she can feel beneath her lips. He tugs lightly on her hair. “When I can move again,” he starts. She trails her tongue along the length of the scar before he can finish, and he sighs.

“Diana.”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t think when you do that.”

“Oh,” she says. She does it again.

He swears softly, and she smiles into his skin. “Such language,” she teases.

He cracks one eye open. “Do I have to wash the dishes?”

She thinks of Barry’s indignation this morning and laughs. “The amount of cursing you do in bed would require an entire city’s worth of dishes.”

He grins at her. “Oops.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. She arches an eyebrow. “I kind of like it, actually.”

“Well in that case, I will curse up a storm for you just as soon as I remember how to move.”

She glances at the clock on the bedside table. “Sounds nice, but it’ll have to wait. You need to clean up and get dressed.”

“We could skip the game,” he suggests in a voice that’s far too casual to actually be casual.

She shakes her head at him. “You can’t.”

“I mean, I _could._ I could say I’m sick. And you have to nurse me back to health.”

“Everyone knows you’re not sick.”

“Lovesick,” he says, grinning.

She rolls her eyes but can’t help a smile. “This will be good for you, Steve. And for them. You all need to get to know each other better.”

He frowns at her. “You keep saying _you_ and not _we._ ”

“That’s because I’m not going.”

“You’re _what_?” he demands, rising up onto his elbows.

Diana pushes off of his chest. “If I go you will be thinking about me, and I will be thinking about you, and we’ll end up trying to sneak off somewhere.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me,” he says. His gaze dips down to her body.

Diana rolls her eyes, grabs a pillow, and hugs it to the front of her body to block his view. Steve crinkles his nose in disapproval.

“You need to build relationships with them,” she tells him.

“I can do that with you there,” he insists. “I’m great at multitasking.”

“It’s not just about us. They treat you differently when I’m around because we’re together. They see us as a unit. They need to see you as your own person.”

In the other room, her phone rings distantly. Diana climbs from the bed, taking one of the blankets with her to wrap around her body, and Steve groans. “Can we go back to the time when there were no interrupting cell phones?” he asks.

Diana picks his Georgetown t-shirt up off the floor and tosses it at him. “Get dressed, grumpy.”

Steve mumbles at her under his breath. Diana smiles.

When she gets to her cell phone, the screen says it’s Clark. “Hello Clark,” she answers.

“Hey,” he says. “We’re all downstairs. Well, except for Bruce. But Alfred said he’s coming.”

“We’ll be down in a minute,” she says, heading toward the bedroom. “Steve is moving a little slow.” She does not feel the need to share that Steve is moving slow because of her.

“Okay,” Clark says brightly. She’s not sure if he’s oblivious or just pretending to be. “See you soon.”

She hangs up. When she gets back into the bedroom, Steve is staring morosely down at his t-shirt. He looks up at her, and she laughs.

“What?” he pouts.

“You’re acting like I’ve sentenced you to an eternity in the underworld.”

“Well, that’s what being without you feels like,” he says. She swears he bats his eyelashes a little.

She laughs again. “Nice try, Trevor, but charm won’t work on this one.”

He huffs at her and shoves his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “Fine. But you have to get dressed too.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to be the one who tells Barry you’re not coming. _You_ can do that.”

“Shit,” Diana mutters.

“Such language,” Steve teases.

Diana throws a pillow at him.

* * *

“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Barry demands, gaping at Diana as though she has just brutally slaughtered a litter of abandoned kittens. “We have to _bond_!”

“Yes, you do,” she says. “But you can do that without me.”

“You’re part of the team!” Barry insists.

“Barry,” she says gently, as though talking to a small child. “This is about you all getting to know Steve, and Steve getting to know you. I already know him, and he already knows me.”

Behind her, Arthur snorts. Diana gives him a look over her shoulder, and he’s wise enough to look slightly abashed.

“You just got him back,” Barry says. “You were apart for a _century,_ Di. Don’t you want to spend as much time with him as possible?”

Steve is standing next to Barry and giving her a kicked puppy look that says _Yeah, don’t you?_ Diana points her finger at Barry. “That is a blatant attempt at emotional manipulation, Bartholomew. Shame on you.”

“Bartholomew?” Steve sputters, rounding on Barry with wide eyes and a grin.

Barry flushes. “It’s a family name. Shut up.”

“She’s got a point, you know,” Clark says, coming to stand behind Diana. “It would probably be a good idea for us to spend some time with just Steve, since we’re all going to be working with just him at some point.”

“Like a guys night,” Vic offers. He smiles at Diana. “Not that we don’t like having you around, Di.”

She smiles at him affectionately.

That’s when Bruce appears. “Are we ready?” he asks, clearly not excited about the night ahead.

Barry rounds on him. “Diana isn’t coming.”

Bruce lifts his eyebrows at Diana.

“My relationship with Steve is infringing on the group’s ability to get to know him,” she explains. “You need a night without me.”

“It’s not like you guys have your tongues down each other’s throats all the time!” Barry exclaims. “Steve won’t even hold your hand in front of us!”

Steve flushes, Diana presses her lips together to hide a smile, and Bruce sighs. “Barry, you’re shouting. People are staring.”

Barry looks indignant. “So you’re not going to make her go?”

Bruce smirks. “As if anyone could make Diana do anything.”

“It might be entertaining to watch someone try,” Clark says in amusement.

“Violent,” Vic adds. “But entertaining.”

“I can’t believe you guys,” Barry says, aghast. He looks at Steve. “Steve?”

Steve shrugs. “What Diana does is not up to me.”

Barry groans, and Diana shoots Steve an appreciative look. He winks at her.

“Fine,” Barry huffs. He brandishes his finger in Diana’s face. “But don’t expect me to bring you back any souvenirs. You don’t come, you don’t get a foam finger.”

“I will try to contain my disappointment,” Diana says dryly.

Barry huffs again and storms off toward the front entrance of the hotel.

“I bet Steve will bring you back a foam finger,” Arthur says, smirking at Diana.

She gives him another look. “You’re intolerable, Arthur.”

“Part of my charm,” Arthur says, winking. He saunters off in Barry’s direction.

Clark puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You ready?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says. His eyes are fixed on Diana, and she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Clark glances between them, seems to realize it too, and smiles. “We’ll meet you outside.”

The rest of the League heads for the hotel entrance. Diana sidles up to Steve as they leave, and drapes her arms around his shoulders. “Try to stay out of trouble, will you?” she murmurs.

He nods but does not look at her. He stares fixedly at a spot on her collarbone, his eyebrows drawn together, and it’s not hard for Diana to interpret his expression. She can feel it too—the looming unease of separation, the stranglehold of fear. It’s part of the reason why she is so certain that staying behind while he goes off with the boys is the best thing for them.

He has not been out in public without her yet. Aside from her brief excursions to capture Harley and confront Waller, they have barely been apart at all. Diana doesn’t _want_ to be apart from him. She wants him always within her reach, always close, and safe, and hers. She’s not ashamed of her reluctance to let him go. She’s not embarrassed by how deeply she loves him, or that she is so afraid of losing him again that she has nightmares about it. Barry is right—she did spend a century missing Steve, and now that she has him back all she wants to do is shut out the world and pretend that he’s the only person that exists.

But he’s not, and she can’t. It’s just not how life works, especially for her. When they get to Paris, she will not be able to take him to work with her at the Louvre. And when he starts working for A.R.G.U.S., there will be missions that he completes without her and that she completes without him. They have to learn to be away from each other, and they need to learn sooner rather than later. The longer they wait, the harder it will be.

“You can text me,” she says to Steve softly. “If you want. But try not to spend the whole night glued to your phone.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“Read some poetry.”

He glances up at her in surprise, and when he sees her smirking at him, a wide smile breaks across his lips.

“There you are,” she whispers, brushing her thumb along his smile. They’re in the middle of a busy hotel lobby. There are people milling around, and the entire League is just outside the front door. But Steve does not seem to mind when she leans forward and kisses him.

“I love you,” she says afterward.

He squeezes her hips. “I love you too.”

She steps away from him reluctantly. He turns and heads for the door. Diana watches him go. Desire wells up inside of her, powerful and consuming. All she would have to do is call his name. He would turn back to her immediately and she could take him upstairs and love him again and again and never let him go, the League and Waller and the rest of the world be damned.

She presses her lips together and says nothing. He does not look back as he moves through the door and out onto the street to join the League. Before long, he is out of her sight and out of her reach.

Still, she lingers in the lobby. She takes a deep breath and forces herself into calm. He’ll be fine. He’ll be with Clark and Bruce and the others, and they’re only going to a basketball game. What could possibly go wrong?

About three hours later Diana finds herself at the basketball game in her armor, her shield on her arm, debris scattered around her and dust in her hair. Her opponent looms in front of her. She spits against the taste of blood in her mouth, tilts her head to the side to crack her neck, and then bends her knees.

_You just had to tempt the fates, didn’t you?_ she thinks to herself wryly just before she hurtles forward.


	20. Twenty

When Steve leaves the hotel, he does not look back at Diana.

It’s not because he doesn’t want to. It’s because he can’t. If he looks at her, and she still has that look on her face that she had just before she kissed him—the one that says she’s worried and trying not to show it—he’s not going to leave. He’s going to march straight back across the hotel lobby and sweep her into his arms and refuse to leave without her. So, he walks through the door without looking back.

He can’t help but feel like it’s a little too similar to that night in 1918.

He doesn’t say much on the way to the game, but he doesn’t have to. Vic and Barry are more than excited enough for everyone, so he probably wouldn’t get a word in anyway.

Speaking of Vic, Steve is shocked to find that Cyborg doesn’t actually look like a cyborg anymore. He’d noticed the second he got off the elevator in the lobby of the hotel with Diana, but he couldn’t ask her about it because Barry had immediately accosted them about why Diana wasn’t wearing her t-shirt. Steve still remembers what Diana told him about staring, but it’s hard not to—and not for the reasons she warned him about.

Most of Vic’s metallic body is covered by fairly average looking clothes: jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt, a thick black coat and a stocking cap. There’s no way a passerby would know that his body was made of metal. It’s his hands and his face, though, that make Steve want to stare, because they’re...well, they’re covered by _skin._ Or at least it _looks_ like skin. Steve has no idea what kind of technology he’s looking at, but it’s clearly something very advanced because this version of Vic looks completely human. He’ll have to ask Diana about it when he gets back.

When they arrive at the arena, Steve is immediately overwhelmed. It’s loud. There are cell phones and TVs and blaring speakers everywhere. There are throngs of people, and some of them are very drunk. Most of them are wearing shirts similar to his. He’s suddenly very grateful that Barry thought to get him one. He feels out of place, but it’s nice to know that he doesn’t _look_ out of place too.

He’s got about a million questions, but he doesn’t feel comfortable asking any of them. Clark is very kind, and Barry is always ready to help, and he knows that Vic or even Bruce would explain something to him if he asked. (Arthur would probably just make fun of him, so that’s not an option.) But he doesn’t _want_ to ask. If he’s honest with himself, part of his reluctance is probably pride—they’re a bunch of superheroes, and he’s about to start doing all their superhero stuff with them, and he doesn’t want to look incompetent or clueless. If he can’t handle a basketball game, there’s no way they’re going to trust him to handle League business.

But some of his reluctance is also that he usually asks Diana his questions, and she’s not here. He misses her already. He misses the way he can feel her body next to his even when they’re not touching. He misses the way her hair smells, and the soft cadence of her voice, and the composed confidence that radiates off of her and seems to fill him too.

_This is going to be a long night,_ he thinks with a sigh.

There’s so much to look at inside the arena that Steve doesn’t realize right away that Clark is shadowing him. He first notices when he slows briefly to study a table with a few uniformed soldiers sitting behind it. Clark pauses too, looking around nonchalantly, and then starts walking again only when Steve does. Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but Clark either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. So Steve pauses again, pretending to examine a nearby food vendor’s offerings. Clark pauses again too. When Steve walks again, so does Clark.

Steve finally stops and turns to face him. “Did Diana tell you to keep an eye on me?” he asks.

Clark looks at him with wide, innocent eyes. “What?”

“You’re shadowing me,” Steve says, smirking. “I’m a spy. I know what it looks like.”

Clark smiles sheepishly. “She didn’t tell me to.”

“But you’re doing it anyway,” Steve says. “Because you figure that’s what she’d want.”

Clark slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “I think she’d kill us all if something happened to you.”

“So it’s just self preservation then, right?”

Clark grins. “Right.”

They are abruptly thrust apart by a parade of scantily clad women waving what appear to be handfuls of ribbon. Steve takes a step back and gapes at their outfits—or lack thereof. They’re not wearing much more than Diana was last night.

“Hey big guy,” one of them says, shaking the ribbons in his face. She looks him up and down suggestively, and Steve feels his face flush. He stumbles backward, trying to get away from her, and his back collides with a dull clang against Vic’s chest.

“You okay?” Vic asks, steadying him.

Steve turns to face him. “Why are they almost naked?” he hisses.

Vic laughs. “They’re cheerleaders.”

Steve frowns.

“You know, like _rah rah_ and _go team go_?” Vic says. “They get the crowd excited and lead chants and stuff. You guys didn’t have cheerleaders back then?”

“They weren’t women,” Steve says, shaking his head.

Vic’s mouth drops open. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And they definitely didn’t run around almost naked.”

“Nowadays pretty much everyone runs around almost naked,” Clark says, appearing next to Steve. “Wait until you see the halftime show.”

“I think the blond one likes you, Steve,” Vic says with a smirk, nodding over Steve’s shoulder. Steve turns around and sees the girl who had waved her ribbons in his face eyeing him from amidst a huddle of her similarly clad friends. It’s the kind of look that isn’t hard to interpret, and he feels himself flush again.

“I prefer brunettes,” he mutters, turning away from her.

“You making friends with the cheerleaders, Trevor?” Arthur asks, appearing next to Vic.

“No,” Steve says.

Arthur waves at the group of women, and Steve can hear them all giggle. Arthur smirks at Steve. “You’re not even going to look?”

“Why would I want to?” Steve says, thinking of Diana in black lace.

“Whipped,” Arthur says.

“Literally,” Vic chortles.

“Guys,” Clark interrupts. “This is Diana we’re talking about.”

They both fall silent and nod. “I’d probably kill you if you looked,” Arthur says thoughtfully.

“Same,” Vic adds.

Steve shakes his head. “Won’t be a problem.”

“Hey,” Barry says pushing into the group next to Clark. “Bruce wants to know what the hell you’re all standing around for.”

They all turn their heads to see Bruce standing a few yards away, his arms folded over his chest and his expression clearly annoyed.

“Come on,” Clark says, laughing. “I think someone needs a drink.”

* * *

The best word Steve can think of to describe their suite is _fancy._

He thinks it might actually be bigger than his flat in London. He can’t believe that people actually watch sports like this. There is a private bathroom and carpet on the floor and a refrigerator; glistening countertops and upholstered leather chairs and a massive TV. There is more food and alcohol than even Barry could eat, and their view of the court is spectacular. For the second time today, Steve finds himself marveling at Bruce’s apparently limitless disposable income.

After loading a plate with food, Steve sits between Clark and Barry to watch the teams warm up. He and Clark are trading stories about growing up on a farm when Barry interrupts.

“So,” the speedster says, leaning toward Steve with a conspiratorial grin. “You come up with a first date idea?”

“No,” Steve sighs.

“First date?” Clark asks, leaning toward Steve too.

Steve is suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic. He glances around at the other members of the League to see if they’re listening, but Vic and Arthur are laughing together by the food and Bruce is glued to his phone.

“Yeah,” Barry says. “They didn’t date back in the old days.” He seems to realize that _old days_ is probably not the most complimentary term, and smiles apologetically at Steve. “Sorry. Anyway. Steve wants their first date to be special but he’s not sure what to do.”

“Well what does she like?” Clark asks.

_When I cuss in bed,_ Steve thinks immediately, and then also immediately flushes. “Flowers,” he says instead.

“Every girl likes flowers,” Barry says. “But you can’t take her to buy flowers as a date.”

“Maybe not to buy them, but Paris is filled with gardens,” Clark says. “Take her to a garden when the flowers are in bloom. She’d love it.”

“It’s February, Clark,” Barry says in exasperation. “He’d have to wait weeks.”

“Oh,” Clark says. “Yeah, that won’t work.”

“She likes ice cream,” Steve says, remembering the way Diana had reacted to the cone he bought her at the train station.

“Don’t I know it,” Barry snorts. Steve frowns at him. “I ate her ice cream once,” Barry explains. “Alfred keeps pints for her in the freezer, and I ate one. There were like six in there, I didn’t even think she’d notice. But she did. And it did not go well.”

“He tried to lie,” Clark tells Steve, grinning.

“You didn’t,” Steve says to Barry.

“I did,” Barry nods. “She had that lasso wrapped around me so fast I thought I’d lost my powers.”

Steve grins. “You say anything embarrassing?”  

Barry shakes his head. “Nope, no way. Just admitted I ate her ice cream and then she let me go.”

“You liar,” Clark says, laughing. “She asked you if you ate it, and you said yes. And then you told her that you were sorry and begged her not to be mad at you. And _then_ you told her that you loved her, and that she was pretty like a movie star and smelled like wildflowers.”

Barry flushes a brilliant shade of crimson, and Steve doubles over and roars with laughter.

“You’re the worst,” Barry says to Clark when Steve has managed to get ahold of himself again.

Clark smirks and sips his beer in response.

“Oh man, Barry,” Steve says, smacking him on the back. “That is...oh man.” He wipes his eyes and snorts again.

“Please don’t tell Vic and Arthur that,” Barry says, glancing over his shoulder at them. “I’ll never live it down.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” Steve promises. “Trust me, I know how wicked that lasso can be. And if it makes you feel any better, I think she smells good too.”

“Like flowers,” Barry says a little dreamily, looking off into the distance.

Clark snorts and then nudges Steve. “Why don’t you just take her out for ice cream?”

Steve frowns. “As our first date?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Well shouldn’t it be...I don’t know, a bigger deal than that?”

“Says who?” Clark scoffs. “It doesn’t have to be big to be special. Especially for Diana. She doesn’t care what you guys _do,_ Steve. She just wants to be with you.”

Steve nods. “That’s true, I guess.”

“I feel like we should be painting each other’s toenails while we have this conversation,” Barry says in an amused voice.

Clark smirks at him. “You should be taking notes for Iris.”

“Nope, nu uh, no way,” Barry says, getting to his feet. “We’re not talking about that right now.”

He’s gone before Clark can say anything else, having sped over to where Arthur and Vic are.

“Who’s Iris?” Steve asks.

Clark grins. “The girl Barry’s in love with.”

Any further explanation is interrupted by Clark’s ringing cell phone. He smiles apologetically at Steve. “I should get this. It’s Lois.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says.

“Hey Lo,” Clark says into the phone as he rises to his feet. “How’d it go with the senator?”

Steve turns his attention back to the court, but both teams have ceased warming up. He scans the crowd, but nobody is doing anything interesting. The giant cluster of screens hanging over center court (Barry said they’re collectively known as a _jumbotron_ , which is maybe the dumbest thing Steve has ever heard) are playing what appears to be an advertisement for some kind of drink. Without anything to focus on, his mind immediately wanders in the direction of Diana.

He wonders what she’s doing. Probably not reading poetry, though he thinks when he finally gets his first paycheck he might buy her a book of e.e. cummings poems just to make her smile. Maybe she’s working? Answering emails or making phone calls...

And that’s when he remembers what she’d said. _You can text me if you want_.

He pulls his phone out and taps in his code. He presses the green message app and it opens, but then he pauses. He can’t remember what to do next. He presses the screen a few times, hoping an empty message will pop up, but nothing happens. He sighs. She’s right within reach, just on the other side of his phone, and he can’t get to her. Technology is the worst.

“Do you need some help?”

Steve jolts in surprise as Vic plops down in the seat next to him. “What?”

Vic nods at Steve’s phone. “You’ve got your message app open but you’re just staring at it and it’s empty. I’m guessing you want to text Diana and you’re not sure how.” He smiles kindly. “I can help. If you want.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Vic points at the screen. “Hit that symbol. Now type in the letter D. Okay, hit her name. And then type whatever you want, and hit that button to send it.” He leans back in his chair. “Once you send it, the record of your messages will always be in your app. So next time you open the app, you’ll see her name and all the messages you guys have sent each other. You can just press it and it’ll open.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. It seems so simple to him now that it’s been explained, and he feels a little stupid. “It probably seems kind of ridiculous to you that I can’t work a cell phone.”

Vic shakes his head. “Nah. I can’t even imagine how big of an adjustment it is to jump a hundred years into the future.”

“It’s a little overwhelming,” Steve admits.

Vic leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You know, if you have questions, you should just ask. For instance, if you’re confused about why I suddenly have a face that’s not metallic.”

He’s smirking a little, and Steve smirks too. “I did notice that.”

Vic grins. “It’s something that Bruce and I have been working on. It’s not hard for the other members of the League to go out in public without being recognized. Clark puts on his glasses, Diana puts her hair up. It seems stupid cause they’re such small changes, but people are usually so wrapped up in themselves that they don’t pay much attention to other people. Unless they’re made of metal.”

There is a tinge of bitterness in his voice, and Steve feels a wave of sympathy. He can still remember Diana’s description of Vic: _He has a good heart._ Steve wonders if other people even realize that, or if they’re too busy staring at his metal body to care.

“It got old,” Vic continues. He’s looking at his hands instead of at Steve. “I figured if Bruce and Barry could wear masks while working for the League, then why couldn’t I wear one when I wasn’t? So, Bruce helped me design one.” He looks up at Steve and smiles crookedly. “I’m a little biased, but I don’t think you can even tell it’s not real.”

“You’re right, you can’t,” Steve says honestly. “It’s really impressive.” Vic grins proudly. “Diana did say you were a genius,” Steve adds.

Vic’s smile turns suddenly shy, the same kind of smile that Barry was wearing when he said that Diana smelled like flowers. Once again, Steve finds himself marveling at just how much his girlfriend means to these people.

“I think she’s the kindest person I’ve ever met,” Vic says thoughtfully.

“She’s also honest,” Steve points out. “She doesn’t say things if they aren’t true.”

Vic seems to pick up on the implication and nods. They sit in comfortable silence for awhile, watching as the players are announced, until Steve turns to face Vic again.

“You know if you’ve got questions for me too, you should ask them. I know you were a little reluctant about me joining the League.”

Vic smiles. “I do have a question, now that you mention it.”

A brief flash of anxiety races through Steve’s chest, but he ignores it. “Shoot.”

“What’s your favorite sport?”

Steve chuckles in relief.

Vic grins. “I mean, I know 1918 was a little before some of our modern leagues,” he continues. “And I know you couldn’t exactly watch sports on TV. But you seem pretty familiar with basketball.”

“Yeah, I like basketball,” Steve says. “I prefer baseball and football though.”

Vic’s eyes light up immediately. He straightens in his chair. “Really? I played football before…” He smiles sadly. “Before all this,” he says, gesturing down at his body. “Did you have a favorite team?”

“Well, I’m from the central part of Ohio, so—”

“No,” Vic cuts him off. “You’re a Buckeye fan?”

“Well yeah,” Steve says with a shrug. “They were pretty good during the war before I…” He trails off just like Vic had. “Before I died,” he finishes with a wry smile. “And according to Barry, they’re still pretty good now.”

“Ah man,” Vic says, collapsing back into his chair just as Clark reappears. “Clark,” Vic says. “Did you know Steve is a Buckeye fan?”

“That’s a shame,” Clark says with a smile.

* * *

At halftime, Steve finds himself alone again. Arthur, Barry, and Vic are huddled around Barry’s phone back by the food table. Bruce and Clark are deep in conversation. Steve pulls out his phone and follows Vic’s directions to send a message to Diana. He stops when he gets to the actual message part, his fingers hovering over the screen. He’s not sure what to say. Maybe something clever, like _How’s your poetry?_ Or maybe something funny, like _So Barry thinks you smell like wildflowers?_ Or perhaps something suggestive, like a list of all the things he wants to do to her when he gets back to the hotel.  

He’s suddenly thinking about this afternoon. Her voice in his ear. Her mouth on his skin. Her thighs bracketing his hips. Her dark hair tossed over her shoulder, her hands splayed on his chest while she—

_Stop it,_ he tells himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He can’t recite baseball stats anymore (Damn it, now he’s thinking about black lace) so he settles on trying to name every single guy he went through bootcamp with. _Alden, Smith, Rogers, Miller, Randle, Peterson…_

It takes a few minutes, but he manages to block the memories momentarily from his mind. He stares down at his phone, and realizes that it doesn’t change the fact that he misses her terribly.

_I miss you_ , he types. It’s true, and if there’s one thing he knows about Diana, it’s that she values the truth.

He looks out across the arena, wondering how long it’ll take her to respond. When he glances back down at his phone, he is surprised to see that she has already replied.

_I miss you too._

His heart leaps in his chest, and he swallows around the lump in his throat. This is ridiculous. He is a grown man. He is in a lavish suite with free food and alcohol at a very exciting basketball game with a league of superheroes who are interesting and funny. He has only been away from her for a few hours. He will see her again in a few more. There is no need for him to feel her absence so intensely, but somehow he does anyway.

_What are you doing_ he types.

An ellipsis appears on the screen. He guesses that means she’s typing out a response. He waits impatiently. He glances up, but all the guys are still busy. When he glances back down, it’s just in time for her message to pop up.

_Laying in bed thinking about you._

Steve smirks at the screen. Always such a tease. He can feel the heat of desire simmering beneath his skin, but without her in front of him he’s feeling far more in control than usual.

_What are you wearing_ he types.

Another almost immediate reply. _Nothing._

“Fucking hell,” Steve mutters under his breath, trying and failing not to think of how she’d looked this afternoon, stretched languidly across the bed and crooking her finger at him.

“You okay?” Barry’s voice asks from behind him.

Steve jumps at the sound and presses his phone against his chest. “Yeah.”

Barry glances down at Steve’s phone and smirks. “You texting Di?”

“No.”

Barry’s smirk deepens. “Aren’t spies supposed to be good liars?”

The arena erupts into a frenzy of cheering, and both Barry and Steve turn toward the court.

“Dude, is that guy going to juggle balls that are on _fire_?” Barry says, dropping into the chair next to Steve.

Steve shoves his phone back in his pocket. He stares down at the court and the guy who is apparently trying to juggle fireballs and tries not to think about Diana in bed, and what she might be doing if she is both naked and missing him.

Eventually, the guy juggling fire—and then after that, the game—is interesting enough that Steve only thinks about Diana every few minutes. Which, for the record, is really an improvement from the every ten seconds that he started at.

During a timeout in the middle of the second half, most of the guys get up to get more drinks and food. Steve pulls his phone back out and types a text to Diana. _I hope you’re still wearing nothing when I get back._

He waits, but she doesn’t answer. He frowns. Maybe she fell asleep? Or didn’t hear her phone?

A moment later, a deafening crash rocks the arena. Steve bolts to his feet. There is a massive cloud of dust and debris raining down onto the court, and people are screaming. Steve leans out from the suite, craning his neck up to look at the ceiling, and notices that there appears to be a large hole in the roof.

The other members of the League surround him. Down on the floor, the dust has cleared just enough that Steve can see a gray creature laying—no, _squirming_ —on the far side of the court. It looks a bit like a person—it has legs, and arms, and a body and a head. But it’s clearly not human.

“What the hell is that?” Vic says from next to Steve.

Steve squints at it. Suddenly it hurtles into the air and then crashes back down onto the court a few yards from where it started. Rising to her feet in the crater where the creature had just been lying is—

“Diana,” Steve chokes, lurching forward.

“Wait,” Vic says, one of his hands closing around Steve’s shoulder. “Bruce,” he calls.

“I see it,” Bruce says, coming up behind Steve.

Steve struggles beneath Vic’s grip. “We have to help.”

“We have to wait,” Bruce says calmly. “She’s already shown herself, and we haven’t. No one knows we’re here.”

“So you’re just going to leave her?” Steve demands, rounding on him.

Bruce looks at him coolly. “She’s more than capable.”

“I know that,” Steve snaps. “But if she doesn’t have to do it alone then she shouldn’t.”

Bruce opens his mouth, but Vic interrupts him. “Guys, it’s up.”

Steve turns back down to the court to see the gray creature rising to its feet and setting its sights on Diana. Steve is far enough away that he can’t make out the look on her face, but he gets the feeling that she’s smirking.

Diana bends her knees and hurtles forward. The gray creature leaps forward too, and they meet in the middle of the court with a thunderous smack. Diana lands on top, and she pulls her arm back and uses her shield to backhand the creature across the face so hard the sound of it cracks through the arena. She rockets her other fist forward to deliver a blow to its head, and then another, but the creature lashes out before she can land a third and punches her in the chest, sending her flying backward.

Diana lands on her feet but skids backward across the court. She’s moving forward again in an instant, but so is the creature and they collide again. This time they twist in the air and the creature lands on top, the sheer force of the collision making the wood of the court crack inward into another small crater.

The creature rises above Diana quick as lightning, raises its foot, and stomps it down toward her. Diana lifts her shield and curls her body inward just before the impact. The creature’s foot crashes against her shield once then twice with a terrible clanging sound that makes Steve’s heart momentarily stop. The floor buckles around them. On the third stomp Diana roars and thrusts upward against its foot, sending the creature sailing away from her.

She leaps to her feet and sends her lasso flying across the court after the creature. The golden cord wraps around it, and Diana yanks hard. It’s body crashes down to the floor and then careens back toward her, sliding on its back across the court. Just as it’s about to bowl her over, Diana pulls her foot back and kicks it across the head with a deafening smack that sends its body cartwheeling in the opposite direction.

“ _Damn_ ,” Arthur mutters.

“She’s beauty and she’s grace,” Barry sings gleefully. “She’ll kick you in the face.”

The creature is headed for a crash landing in a section filled with people. The arena fills with screams, but Diana has already thrown her lasso again. The cord wraps around the creature’s chest, pinning its arms to its sides, and it’s body jerks to a stop in mid-air and then slams down onto the court just in front of the home team’s bench.

It stands immediately, struggling against the lasso. Diana leaps into the air, rocketing toward the ceiling, and the lasso goes taut and yanks the creature up after her. Just as quick as she went up she suddenly changes direction and hurtles back downward, her dark hair streaming behind her. The creature hovers, suspended in the air as the lasso goes slack between them, and then Diana lands on the court and whips her lasso down and across her body. The creature plummets to the floor with a crash so hard the entire arena seems to shake.  

With a flick of Diana’s wrist, the lasso coils back at her side. The creature gets to its feet a second later, apparently unfazed. Steve doesn’t know what kind of creature could make it through all of that and not even appear wounded at all, but he’s starting to feel a little nauseous with worry.

For a brief moment, Diana and her adversary stand and stare at each other. The arena is nearly dead silent.

“She’s going to kill it,” Clark says quietly.

Sure enough, Diana reaches back over her shoulder and pulls her sword out. The creature gazes at her, its head tilting slightly, and then it holds its arm out. The limb shudders, and then sharpens and transforms into a sword.  

“Did he just sprout a damn sword out of his arm?!” Barry shouts.

“It’s a machine,” Vic says in surprise.

Diana does not seem surprised. She charges forward, and suddenly she and the creature are tangoing across the court, their swords colliding with sharp clangs, their feet flying over the ruined floor. Steve has seen her fight before, but he is in awe. The creature is fast but she’s faster, strong but she’s stronger. As violent as it is there is something so damn elegant about the way she fights that all he can think is _My god she’s beautiful._

A few moments later, Diana blocks a thrust with her shield and then brings her sword down with an arcing flash, severing the creature’s arm and the sword that had grown out of the end. A shower of sparks erupts from the end of the arm, but Diana doesn’t even pause. She lifts her leg and kicks the creature square in the chest. It stumbles backward and lands with a thud on its back end. She strides after it. It raises its lone arm in a defensive posture but she slices that one off too, and then whips her sword around in one smooth motion and severs the head straight off the creature’s body.  

“Wow she really just went right for the kill there, huh?” Barry says.

Diana isn’t done. She sets her feet, grasps the hilt of her sword with both hands, and brings the blade straight down as though she is splitting a log of wood with an ax. The sword slices the creature’s body in two, and the two halves tumble in opposite directions and lay sparking and smoking at her feet.

“I think _that_ was the kill,” Clark says in amusement.

“Good lord,” Barry murmurs.

Diana looks up, scanning her surroundings with her sword ready. Steve looks too, but she is alone on the court. There are no more creatures. There is a brief and deafening silence, and then the arena erupts into a riotous cacophony of cheering and clapping.

“That’s your girl,” Barry says, pounding on Steve’s back. “Killing robot monsters to rounds of applause.”

Steve grins in relief, but the celebration is short lived. The cheers melt into gasps and then screams, as six more creatures pour through the hole in the roof and land in a circle around Diana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. Y'all were like, "OMG CLIFFHANGERS ARE SO EVIL HOW DARE YOU" and I was like, "Oh, I've unexpectedly got some time tonight, I'll just post this next chapter so that I am not so evil." And then I read it over and got to the end and was like welp, that's a cliffhanger too. Oops.
> 
> Also, for the record: Is it possible for Vic and Bruce to create some type of mask that makes Cyborg look human? I don't know. But I'm currently writing a fic about a goddess and time travel and superpowers, so I say anything is possible and gosh darn it I just wanted poor Vic to watch a basketball game without everyone gaping at him. So. Deal with it.


	21. Twenty-One

By the time the last creature’s feet hit the basketball court, Steve has forgotten how to breathe.

Diana twirls her sword and glances around at each of them. She looks undaunted, but Steve rounds on Bruce anyway.

“I swear to god, Bruce—”

“Don’t bother,” Bruce cuts him off. “Go guys.”

Barry is gone in a red blur, followed quickly by the red and blue streak of Clark. Next to Steve, Vic rips his mask and clothes off and then catapults out of the suite and down toward the court. By the time he gets to the floor, Clark already has one of the creatures on it’s back and is punching it repeatedly in the face. There is a red blur racing around another. Steve watches as Cyborg lands before a third and lifts his arm the same way the creature that Diana had killed did—the end of Vic’s hand begins to transform, and then he shoots it forward and plunges it straight into the chest of his opponent.

For a moment, all Steve can do is stand and stare in awe. His gaze flits back and forth between the four of them but lingers, unsurprisingly, on Diana. He is probably a little biased, seeing as he’s in love with her, but as far as he’s concerned not even Clark and his laundry list of superpowers are as remarkable to watch as she is when she gets going with her sword and shield.

A whizzing noise echoes in Steve’s ear, and he turns just in time to see Bruce, in full gear, leap from the end of the suite and zipline down a black cord all the way to the court. He lands in a crouch, but Steve doesn’t watch where he goes after that—he’s just noticed that one of the basketball hoops has somehow fallen on a group of people who are struggling to get out from beneath it. He scans the League, but all of them are busy with a creature of their own, and there is a sixth ranging through a section of seats and terrorizing a group of fans. Steve knows he can’t fight the sixth creature—not when it’s as strong as Diana, and not when he has no weapon, no suit, and no superpowers. Arthur, wherever he is, will have to deal with it. But Steve _can_ help those people who are stuck under the hoop.

If he can get down to the court.

He leans out over the edge of the suite and surveys the drop. It’s too far. He _could_ make it, but he could also break his legs. He could go out through the suite door and back through the arena the way they’d come in, but there are going to be people everywhere. It’ll take him forever to get through.

Arthur appears next to him, dressed in his outfit and gripping his trident. “Want a lift?” he asks.

“What?” Steve says, turning toward him.

“I can jump,” Arthur says, nodding down to the court. “And I can take you with me if you want.”

Steve blinks. “Like...carry me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “We don’t got all day, Trevor. You want down there or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Steve says.

Arthur gestures at his back. “Hop on.”

Piggyback riding Arthur down onto the court is probably both embarrassing and ridiculous. Steve doesn’t care. He climbs onto Arthur’s back without a second’s hesitation. Arthur leaps down to the next level of seats, then down again, and Steve hangs on like a child.

When they get down to the court, Steve clambers off Arthur’s back. “Thanks.” He points to the creature terrorizing the fans. “I think that one’s yours.”

“Bet your ass it is,” Arthur says, twirling his trident and then bounding forward.

Steve smirks at him, and then scans the court. He can see Diana’s lasso glowing nearby, but he ignores it and zeroes in on the fallen basketball hoop. He sprints toward it, dodging scattered chairs and a rolling basketball. When he gets there, he counts two people trapped beneath: a young girl who has both legs stuck, and a young guy with only one leg stuck. There is a group of three guys trying to lift the hoop, but it’s not moving.

Steve skids to a stop next to them. “Want some help?”

“Yeah,” says one of the guys.

“Let’s do it together,” Steve says. He bends over, curls his fingers under the edge of the hoop, and looks up at them. “On three. One, two, three!”

They all strain, but the hoop barely budges.

“Again,” Steve says. “One, two, three!”

The hoop still doesn’t move.

“We could really use Superman right about now,” one of the guys says, looking at Steve. And then his eyes widen, and he says, “Look out!”

Steve whips around just in time to see a block of arena seating flying right at him from the direction of Arthur’s creature. For a moment he is paralyzed, shocked by how fast it’s flying and the realization that there’s no way he can duck quick or low enough to escape it, and then suddenly his body is being slammed down to the floor by what feels like a freight train just as an earsplitting, metallic screech echoes above him.

Steve’s back hits the floor with a smack, but his head doesn’t—there is something holding it up off the floor. He blinks up at the ceiling, dazed, and then Diana’s face fills his vision.

“Steve? Are you okay?” she asks, her eyebrows gathered in worry. Her hand smoothes over the back of his head, and he suddenly understands what happened—Diana tackled him, and cradled his head so he wouldn’t split his skull open on the court. He’s guessing that metallic sound was her shield connecting with the chunk of seats.

“You just saved my life,” he says stupidly.

She smiles a little. “Apparently you didn’t hear me when I told you to stay out of trouble.”

“Hey, you’re the one who crashed through the roof,” he shoots back.

“Touche,” she says, smiling a little wider.

There is a horrific crunching sound somewhere behind Diana, and she looks over her shoulder and then back at him. Her smile is gone. “I have to go.” She presses her hand briefly against his chest. “Get out of the arena.”

“Wait,” he says, closing his hand around her arm as she starts to rise. “There are people trapped.”

“Where?”

He points over at the hoop. Diana strides toward it. Steve watches her lift it one-handed and with ease, carrying it a few feet to the side before dropping it. _Who needs Superman when you’ve got Wonder Woman?_ Steve thinks smugly, getting to his feet.

The guy who was trapped is immediately surrounded by the guys who had been trying to help Steve lift the hoop. They haul their friend to his feet and start limping toward the exit. Nobody is coming to the aid of the girl whose legs had been crushed, so Diana crouches next to her. Steve hurries over to them.

“Thank you,” the girl says to Diana, staring at her in awe.

Diana smiles. “He’s going to get you out of here, okay?” she says, tipping her head in Steve’s direction. She looks at him, the question clear in her eyes, and he nods immediately.

“Yeah, I’m on it. Go.”

She rises to her feet and turns to go, then hesitates. She looks down at him, her eyes darting over his face. “Be careful,” she murmurs. And then she’s gone.

Steve turns toward the girl. “I’m going to carry you,” he tells her, looking down at her mangled and bloodied legs. “But it’s probably going to hurt.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Steve scoops her up, one arm beneath her knees and the other along her back, and the girl cries out in pain. Steve looks down at her in sympathy. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Just get me out of here,” she says, burying her head in his chest.

“You got it.”

He moves as quickly as he can toward the exit, trying to keep an eye out for more projectile seats. He’s just made it to the mouth of a tunnel-like exit when a wild-eyed man leaps in front of him.

“Oh my god, Kaylee!” the man gasps.

Steve blinks at him, confused, but the girl in his arms gasps too. “Mike!”

“Oh god,” Mike says, looking down at Kaylee’s legs. He rakes his hand through his hair. “Oh god. Are you…” He looks up at Steve. “Who are _you_?”

“The guy who’s trying to get her out of here,” Steve says dryly. “Do you mind?”

“I’m her boyfriend, I got her,” Mike says, reaching for Kaylee.

Steve shifts Kaylee into Mike’s arms. She cries out in pain again. Mike turns to leave, but Kaylee reaches out and grabs hold of Steve. “Thank you,” she says, squeezing his arm.

Steve nods. “No problem.”

Mike hurries out of the arena. Steve turns and jogs back toward the court. Diana had told him to get out, but he can’t. He can’t just go stand outside and twiddle his thumbs while she and the rest of the League fight. He wants to fight too, but he knows he can’t—not these things, and not without a weapon and a suit. But he _can_ help innocent bystanders who might be injured. It’s what Diana would do if she couldn’t fight, and it’s exactly what he intends to do too.  

Until he gets back to the court and stops dead in his tracks in surprise.

There are two massive geysers of water blasting up through the wooden floor. Arthur is standing next to one, and a creature is standing next to the other. Both of them have their arms outstretched, propelling the water toward each other, and the jets are crashing into each other and starting to flood the court. Nearby, something similar is happening to Clark: He is using his heat vision but so is the creature he’s battling, and there is a red beam of heat stretched between their faces like some kind of angrily glowing rope.

Diana is hovering above the court, locked in a violent, mid-air brawl with another creature that is as strong as she is—when its fist connects with her face, she goes flying backward into the jumbotron with a sickening smack. Vic is on his knees just below her, his cybernetic body shuddering hard, his hand still thrust through the chest of his creature. Both of them appear to be sparking and smoking. Racing through the sections of seats are two blurs moving at breakneck speed—the familiar red of Barry, and what appears to be a blur that’s the same gray as the other creatures.

Steve is baffled. How are these creatures as strong as Diana and as fast as Barry? How can they control water like Arthur, and how do they have heat vision like Clark? Vic had said they were machines, and Steve knows that Vic can override any type of technology he wants—he’d talked about it last night. But there he is in the center of the court, on his knees with his metallic body shivering violently, apparently still trying to override the creature’s system.

_What the hell are these things?_ Steve wonders.

It’s not until his gaze falls on Bruce, who is locked in hand-to-hand combat just a few yards away with a creature of his own, that Steve puts it together. Barry’s creature is fast. Diana’s is strong. Clark’s has heat vision, Arthur’s has water. Bruce’s has none of those things.They are moving fast, but no faster than a highly trained human fighter. The blows they are exchanging are hard, but not nearly as hard as those that Diana and her creature are trading. Bruce is human, and his creature is fighting like one. Steve suddenly remembers the way Diana had pulled her sword on the first creature, and the way it had watched her and then copied her.

“They’re copying the powers of whoever they fight,” Steve says aloud when he realizes.

He has absolutely no idea how something like that even works. What the hell kind of technology can copy _superpowers?_ But the how doesn’t matter much to him at the moment. What matters is letting the League know before one of the creatures manages to copy _all_ their powers. His first instinct is to tell Diana, but she’s currently punching the hell out of her creature in mid-air, and Steve can’t fly. He’ll have to find another League member. Except they’re all busy, and he can’t get close enough to any of them without risking another near-death experience.

And that’s when all of hell breaks lose.

The jet of water that Arthur is propelling toward his creature takes a sharp right and blasts into Clark’s creature. Clark immediately starts using his super-breath, and in a matter of seconds his creature is frozen solid. Arthur’s trident rockets across the court, smashes into Clark’s creature, and shatters it into a million tiny shards. Diana drops from the sky a second later, landing on the shoulders of Arthur’s creature. She reaches down, wraps her arms around its head, and twists so hard that she rips its entire head off its body.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Steve says, but no sooner are the words out of his mouth then Diana leaps off the now headless creature and lands on the floor with a splash. A red blur zooms past her just as she bends her knees a little and ducks her head. Steve hears the resounding _smack_ before he sees that the gray creature with super speed has run right into her—and while she is still on her feet, it is sprawled on its back on the floor next to the same creature she’d just beheaded.

A moment later a red blur with far more sparks than usual races past Steve, arcs through the air, and smashes onto the court between the two creatures. The standing water on the floor ignites into a sea of blindingly bright electrical currents. The two creatures jolt off the floor, shaking violently as their bodies are engulfed in electricity.

Even through the blazing brightness of it all, Steve’s eyes find Diana. She is leaping onto a table that’s on the sideline of the court, her lasso swirling next to her. He watches as she flings it into the air to wrap around the creature that is still hovering up by the jumbotron. Steve is so caught up in the sight of her yanking the creature toward her, one hand over the other along the golden length of her lasso, that he doesn’t realize that Bruce is careening toward him until the Batman’s body knocks him to the floor.

Bruce rolls off of him immediately. Steve scrambles to his feet, but he makes the mistake of doing so in between Bruce and his creature. The creature barrels toward Bruce, but not before it shoves Steve out of the way so hard that he goes flying across the court.

It’s a table that breaks his fall. The edge of it slams into his left shoulder, and his body jerks in the opposite direction of his arm. The pain is immediate and excruciating. He bounces off the table and lands face first on the court, unable to catch himself. Another stab of pain shoots through the right half of his face as it smacks against the floor. He curls inward, gasping for breath, and somewhere through the haze of agony he hears Diana scream his name.

He turns toward her voice, the wooden floor cool against the uninjured half of his face. When he opens his eyes, all he can see is two blurry red boots. “I’ve got him,” Clark’s voice booms authoritatively from somewhere above Steve. “Finish it, Di.”

Steve squints at the boots. He closes his right eye against a trickle of blood oozing down into his eyeball and moans, “Diana?”

The red boots move. Steve gets a very brief, one-eyed glimpse of Diana on the other side of the court, her fingers curling into the shoulders of a creature, and then her arms wrenching apart with such force that she rips its body clean in half.

“Fucking hell,” Steve rasps, unable to tamp down a shocked laugh.

Strong hands lift Steve and then lay him down gently on his back. His shoulder throbs painfully, and he winces and clutches his elbow to hold his arm closer to his body. Something brushes over Steve’s blood-closed eye.

“You can open it now,” Clark says. “Are you okay?”

Steve opens his eye and blinks up at Clark against the sting of blood. “She just ripped that thing in half with her bare hands,” he says. He’s still laughing. He knows he probably sounds like a maniac. He’s in too much pain to care.

“Yeah,” Clark says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “She’s been known to do that.” He furrows his eyebrows. “Your shoulder?”

“Hurts like hell,” Steve grits out.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing feels great at the moment.”

Clark nods. “I need you to hold still, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Steve watches as Clark’s eyes go glassy, and then he trails his gaze from Steve’s feet all the way up to the top of his head.

“X-ray vision?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. No broken bones. But your shoulder is separated.”

“Don’t need x-ray vision to know that,” Steve jokes, wincing. “Can you help me sit up?”

Clark lifts him gently into a sitting position. Steve curls forward, still clutching his elbow, and groans, “Shit that hurts.”

“Steve,” Diana calls. There’s panic in her voice. He looks up just as she crouches next to him. Her hands go to his face immediately, her fingers wiping away the blood that is starting to trickle down toward his eye again.

He is helpless against the urge to tilt toward her, his good shoulder brushing against one of her knees. She drops smoothly onto her bottom on the floor and spreads her legs, bending one behind his back. She guides him with gentle hands to lean against her bent leg, her chest pressing into his side. He doesn’t fight her—he just lets out a shaky breath and follows her lead, leaning heavily against her. He turns his head and gazes at her, but she does not meet his eyes. She’s too busy looking his body over the way Clark had just done.

“I’m okay,” he tells her.

She ignores him. “Clark,” she says, her tone clipped.

“Nothing internal except a separated shoulder,” Clark answers immediately.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She murmurs something under her breath, something that sounds a lot like Greek, and Steve grins at her. “Were you thanking the gods or cursing my mortal frailty?”

She finally looks him in the eye, and she is not amused. “I told you to leave.”

“I did. Then I came back.” She clenches her jaw at him and he starts talking before she can. “What was I supposed to do, Diana? Wait outside for you?”

“Yes.”

“Like hell.”

“You don’t have a suit yet, Steve. You don’t even have a weapon.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight. I just wanted to help people who might be hurt.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Damn it, Steve—”

Whatever she’s going to say after that is cut off by Barry, who skids to a stop next to Clark and says, “Steve?”

His voice is small and quiet, and when Steve glances up he’s taken aback by the stricken expression on the speedster’s face.

“Are you okay?” Barry asks. His hands are fluttering at his sides.

A surge of affection courses through Steve. He smiles. It makes his head hurt, but he pretends it doesn’t and says, “I’m fine.”

“Barry, get me a towel,” Diana orders.

She holds her hand out, and an instant later Barry is pressing a towel into her palm. Diana dabs at the blood on Steve’s forehead gingerly, her eyebrows knit in concentration. Steve gazes at her.

“You ripped that thing in half with your bare hands,” he says.

“I’m thinking about ripping _you_ in half with my bare hands,” she shoots back.

He grins. “I can’t decide which was better: You ripping that thing in half, or you ripping that other thing’s head clean off its neck.”

There is a very, _very_ brief moment when the corner of her mouth tugs upward. But then his shoulder throbs, and he winces and grunts a little as he clutches his arm tighter, and the expression on her face dissolves into concern.

He can see it in her eyes all of a sudden—the same haunted grief he heard in her voice last night when she woke up screaming. Guilt washes over him. If he could go back, he’d still make the same choice. He’d help that girl who was crushed by the hoop, and then he’d come back to help others. That’s just who he is, and she knows that. It’s one of the reasons she loves him.

But that doesn’t mean he didn’t scare the hell out of her. And it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel awful about giving her one more thing to have nightmares about.

He moves his face closer to hers and lowers his voice. “I’m sorry, Diana.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his. He glances down at her mouth. Clark and Barry are still standing there, watching, but Steve doesn’t care. Maybe it’s the pain that’s making him uninhibited. Maybe it’s that he’d nearly died again. Maybe it’s just that he can’t stand how absolutely bulldozed she looks, as though ripping a mechanical creature in half with her bare hands is easy compared to dealing with his separated shoulder and bloodied face. Whatever it is, it makes him close the rest of the small distance between them, brush his lips briefly over hers, and then whisper again, “I’m sorry.”

She curls her fingers around his neck and leans closer to him. “You stubborn, ridiculous man,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry.” He closes his eyes and just breathes her in, and for a second nothing hurts anymore.

“I might die of cuteness overload,” Barry’s voice interrupts.

Diana pulls back, and Steve turns and glares at Barry. “Maybe you could die somewhere else,” he says.

Clark snorts.

“Superman!” Bruce’s voice calls.

Clark looks over his shoulder. “Looks like we’ve got some injuries,” he says. He scans the arena. “Lots of injuries,” he amends.

“Go,” Diana says. “I’m going to take Steve to the hospital.”

Clark speeds away. Steve crinkles his nose. “I hate hospitals.”

“Too bad,” Diana says.

Barry raises his hand. “I can run him there.”

“You go help,” Diana says. “We’re going to fly.”

“Yes ma’am,” Barry says and races away.

Steve snaps his head up to look at Diana. “Fly? Like, you’re going to…?”

She smiles at him. “I’m going to be as gentle as possible, but I need you to hold your arm as tight as you can so that it doesn’t jostle while we’re in the air.”

He nods. Anxiety flutters in his stomach. He’s a pilot. He loves to fly. But this isn’t the kind of flying he’s used to.

It must be written on his face, because Diana ducks her head toward him. “Steve?”

He looks up at her.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

She shifts away from him, slides an arm around his back, and then one beneath his knees. A second later she is on her feet and holding him the way he’d held the girl who was stuck beneath the hoop. He hisses in pain. His shoulder is throbbing, and he feels like his head might split open.

“Shit,” he groans.

Diana presses her lips against his temple. “I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Steve inhales and exhales slowly, concentrating on his breathing instead of the pain. “Okay,” he says after a minute.

“Ready?” she asks.

Steve glances down at his body in her arms. His brain flits automatically to the ridiculous image of himself in a wedding dress, and Diana carrying him over the threshold.

“I think I like it better when _I_ carry _you_ ,” he mutters.

She laughs. “Maybe later.”

“ _Definitely_ later,” he retorts.

She laughs again.

* * *

Flying with Diana is a unique experience, to say the least.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t trust her. He does. He just...well, he’s used to the solid metal of a plane, and the knowledge that he’s in control of wherever the plane goes. Right now, he has zero control. Diana is holding him effortlessly, and he knows she won’t drop him. But he is still just a little bit...anxious.

“You’re not breathing,” Diana says into his ear pretty soon after they get out of the arena via the hole in the roof.

He sucks in a breath when he realizes she’s right. It’s freezing outside in the February air, and the wind is frigid and hard. Steve shivers and thinks longingly of his coat, which is back in the suite. Diana holds him tighter. When he looks over at her, he sees that she is watching him closely.

“Are you cold?” she asks. “We could go back for your coat.”

“It’s not so bad,” he lies. “Kind of refreshing.” Her gaze flutters down over his body worriedly. “Hey, watch where you’re going,” he says.

She smirks at him. “You mean in case there’s somebody else flying really close?”

“You’re the worst,” he says.

“I won’t drop you, Steve,” she tells him, her voice dipping into seriousness.

“I know,” he says. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look down. The street is—shit, the street is really far down. His vision swims. He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little, and then forces himself to look again. This time it’s better, but not by much.

“You fly any of your other boyfriends around?” he asks, searching desperately for a conversation topic to distract himself from the pain, the height, and the cold.

“Just you,” she says, smiling. She tilts her head. “And Bruce, once.”

He curls his lip at her, and she laughs. He loves her laugh. And her sense of humor. And the way her hair falls around her shoulders. Also, her eyes. And...well, okay, he loves all of her.

And then, because he is hopeless and ridiculous, he starts thinking about sex.

“Were you, uh…” He clears his throat. “Were you really wearing nothing earlier?”

She looks over at him with another smirk. “You think I would lie?”

“To get a reaction out of me? Yeah. Yeah I do.”

She laughs. “I did have clothes on when I texted you,” she admits. “But only because I wanted you to take them off me when you got back. I like that part.”

“Good lord, Diana.”

“You started it.”

“Just be quiet until we get there.”

“Fine.”

A moment of silence passes. The wind whistles in Steve’s ears. He stares at the curves of Diana’s armor over her sternum and thinks about tracing the skin there with his lips. He thinks about kneeling before her as he had in Veld, slowly removing her boots and then skimming his hands along her bare legs.

_Don’t say it,_ he thinks. _Just be quiet._

“I’m going to take this armor off you later,” he tells her anyway.

She arches an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were being quiet?”

“I just thought you should know. In case you were thinking of making other plans.”

“You can’t even use one of your arms, Steve.”

“We’ll make it work.”

She smirks. “We’ll see.”

“No, we’ll definitely make it work,” he insists. “I can be very creative.”

“You could watch me take it off for you,” she suggests.

Now he’s thinking about lying on their bed at the hotel and watching her very slowly take her armor off, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Desire tightens in his groin.

“Yeah, no more talking,” he says.

She laughs. “Maybe try some stats from the 1916 World Series.”

He glares at her. She winks at him.

By the time they land outside the hospital, he’s freezing. Diana sets him down on his feet a few yards away from a set of doors with a large red EMERGENCY sign hanging above them. There is a group of doctors and nurses huddled off to the side of the entrance, chatting and smoking. They stare at Diana, their mouths agape. She doesn’t even glance at them. She makes no move toward the doors. Despite his shivering, neither does Steve. He thinks he knows what she’s thinking. He’s been thinking the same thing.

“You need to go back to the arena,” he says quietly. “There are people who need help.”

“Yes.” She folds her arms over her chest, and tilts just a little closer to him. She’s staring down at the pavement. “I don’t want to leave you,” she whispers.  

“I’ll be fine,” he says. She looks up at him, and he gives her a crooked smile. “I promise.”

“Do you have your phone?” she asks.

He lets go of his injured arm with a pained exhale, and then pats his pocket with his good hand. His phone is still there, but when he pulls it out he realizes that the screen is cracked so badly that it won’t work.

“Yeah,” he says. “But...also, no.”

He looks up at her again, and the uneasiness on her face makes him want to reach for her. He can’t. He can hear the huddle of hospital staff whispering her name. _Wonder Woman. That’s her. Oh my god, that’s Wonder Woman_.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter, given that he’d kissed her back in the arena where anyone could have seen. But somehow, this feels different.

“I’ll be right here,” he tells her. “Whenever you’re done, just come back and I’ll be here. I won’t go anywhere. I promise.”

She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t move.

“Go Diana,” he tells her gently. “I’ll be okay.”

She glances over at the crowd of people. For a brief moment, he thinks she might kiss him anyway, audience be damned. Instead, she looks him in the eye and lifts her chin.

“I love you.”

He smiles. “I love you too.”

She lingers for a second longer, and then she takes a step back and shoots up into the sky. He watches her until he can’t see her anymore, and then he shuffles toward the hospital staff who are standing outside the doors.

“Hi,” he says, smiling at the way they’re still staring after Diana in awe. “Think you could give me a hand?”


	22. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears. Two quick things:  
> 1) I'll be double posting this weekend. This chapter is my typical Friday post (obviously), but there'll be a second chapter posted on Sunday. Probably in the evening. You should be warned, though, that it will not be everyone's cup of tea. More on this later.  
> 2) Unless the muses change their mind, this story is set to be 25 chapters plus an epilogue. Sooo I guess that means we're coming to a close soon. Sad day.

The moment Diana lands in the middle of the basketball court, Clark appears at her side.

“Where do you need me?” she asks him.

“You didn’t need to come back,” he answers.

“Yes I did. Where do you need me?”

He gazes at her for a moment, the concern clear on his face. She lifts her chin at him defiantly. He sighs a little and points toward the north end of the court. “Bruce probably needs a hand. Not that he’d admit it.”

Diana starts in that direction, but Clark calls out after her. She turns around.

“I can hear Steve’s heartbeat,” he tells her quietly.

Diana’s heart plummets in her chest. “Is he—”

“He’s fine,” Clark cuts her off, smiling. “I just wanted you to know that I can keep tabs on him. If something happens, I’ll know. And I’ll let you know.”

Relief floods through Diana’s body. She nods. “Thank you.”

* * *

Diana feels Steve’s absence like a reopened wound.

It helps to help. There are people who are trapped, people who are injured, people who are shellshocked and terrified and need to be coaxed out of their hiding places. Diana does it all. She smiles and comforts, she lifts heavy things, she carries the wounded out to ambulances and first responders. She checks on each of the members of the League. She has always found both meaning and joy in doing good, and this is no exception. She is glad she can help.

But through it all, her mind is churning with questions about Steve. Is he in pain? Is he confused? Scared? Are the doctors and nurses being kind? Is there something Clark missed, some type of internal injury that will send Steve into an operating room without her even knowing because he can’t get ahold of her? She’s dying to go to him, to sit next to him and hold his hand and tease him so that he smiles instead of grimacing in pain. Instead, she is here. It’s where she should be. But it isn’t where she wants to be.  

Time seems to go by both quickly and slowly. Eventually, she finds herself with nothing to do. There are no immediate needs, and no more people to help. She spots Bruce crouching next to the creature she ripped in half, his head bent down to study its insides. She makes her way toward him.  

“I think we’re about done here,” she says, stopping next to him.

He does not look up from his examination. “Yeah,” he agrees absently. “All the wounded are out. Have you looked at this?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and surveys the creature with distaste. “I’d rather not.”

He looks at her over his shoulder. There is a smirk stretched across his lips. “Attitude much?”

“Can you blame me?”

“You ripped it in half. I think you’ve already made your displeasure quite clear.”

“I should’ve ripped it in fourths.”

He gestures at it. “You’re more than welcome to. I’m sure Barry would get a kick out of it.”

“Only Barry?”

His smirk deepens. “Arthur does seem to get off on watching you destroy anyone dumb enough to pick a fight with you.”

“Yes, Arthur was clearly who I meant.”

He snorts. She smiles. Her interactions with Bruce over the past few days have been so deeply colored by the sudden end of their romance that she nearly forgot how much she enjoys just _talking_ to him. There is amusement and friendly affection dancing in his eyes, and though she’s not naive enough to assume that there won’t be any more awkwardness going forward, she’s relieved by the indication that they’re headed in the right direction.

“Come here,” Bruce orders gently, crooking his finger at her. “Look at it.”

She sighs, but crouches next to him anyway and surveys the inside of the creature. “It’s definitely a machine,” she says. “But we knew that already.”

“Yeah, but look at this wiring. And the chips here. This is state of the art, advanced equipment. Military grade.”

Diana’s head snaps up. “Military,” she repeats, thinking of Waller.

Bruce meets her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. But I don’t think it’s her.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “What would she gain?”

“Revenge.”

“When she’s so close to getting what she wants? No. She wants to work with the League more than she wants to hurt us.”

“For now,” Diana says, staring down at the creature.

“For now,” Bruce agrees.

Diana’s hair flutters all of a sudden, and then Barry is leaning over her shoulder. “This is the part in horror movies when the robot monster wakes up and molds itself back together and then devours everyone’s faces.”

Diana doesn’t even have to look at Bruce to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Yes,” she says, smiling up at Barry. “But we’re not in a horror movie.”

“You’d probably rip it in half again if it tried to eat your face,” Barry says, grinning down at her.

“Probably,” she agrees. “I am rather fond of my face.”

“It’s a nice face,” Barry acknowledges. “Way too nice to be eaten by a robot monster.”

“Is that what we’re calling them?” Arthur says, appearing on the other side of the creature. The end of his trident thumps against the court. “Robot monsters?”

“I mean, it’s filled with wires and microchips,” Barry says, gesturing at the creature. “And it did a lot of damage. Robot monster seems to fit.”

“Veto,” Clark says, landing next to Bruce.

“What? Why?” Barry says, indignant. “It’s classic _and_ clever.”

“Robot monster ain’t clever, kid,” Arthur says.

“When I think of a robot, this isn’t what I think of,” Clark says while Barry glares at Arthur.

“What do you think of, CP-30 and R2-D2?” Bruce says, smirking up at Clark.

“Actually I think of Optimus Prime, thank you very much,” Clark shoots back, grinning.

“Still a nerd,” Bruce mutters.

“Says the man studying the robot corpse,” Diana says.  

“Technically it’s an android corpse,” Vic says, appearing next to Arthur. “It looks kind of human, and humanoid robots are typically known as androids.”

“Like in Blade Runner,” Barry says.

“Yeah,” Vic replies. “Just don’t try to kiss this one as practice for Iris, okay? Movies aren’t like real life.”

Clark snorts. Arthur guffaws loudly.

“You guys all suck,” Barry mutters. He nudges Diana with his knee. “Except you.”

Bruce gets to his feet. “Were you able to learn anything before you killed it, Cyborg?”

“I didn’t kill it, it self-destructed,” Vic answers. “But no, not much. Whoever designed them knew what I could do. I haven’t had to work that hard to override a system since...well. You know.”

“It wasn’t just you,” Diana says, also getting to her feet. “They knew what all of us could do.”

“Are you referring to when the first dude sprouted a sword out of his arm?” Barry asks.

“Yes,” Diana says, smiling. “But it wasn’t just me. Yours was fast. Superman’s had heat vision. Aquaman’s could control water.”

“You think they were designed for us,” Bruce says.

“Don’t you?” Diana asks him.

“Mine had no powers,” he answers.

“But neither do you,” Arthur says. “Yours was designed to fight like you just like the rest of ours were designed to fight like us.”

“But it didn’t pick me,” Bruce points out. “I got down here and picked it. All of us picked one and started fighting. There’s no way each of us just happened to pick whatever android was specifically designed for us.”

“Maybe each of them had all of our powers,” Clark pipes up.

“Then why didn’t mine use your super-breath to freeze me instead of chasing after me?” Barry asks. “Why didn’t Arthur’s freeze his water?”

“If they had all the powers, they would have used them,” Diana says.

“So then how’d we end up fighting our own superpowered twins?” Arthur asks.

Bruce scratches his chin. “Well, that first android only sprouted a sword after it watched Wonder Woman pull hers out.”

There is a moment of silence as his words sink in.

“Mine wasn’t fast until I ran around it,” Barry says.

“Same with mine and heat vision,” Clark says.

“And mine with water,” Arthur adds. “So, what, are we saying they watched us and then _learned_ our powers?”

They all look at Vic. He shrugs. “It’s possible that if they were outfitted with the right kind of equipment and the right operating system, they could learn to duplicate the skills of whoever they were fighting.”

“Now _that’s_ some horror movie shit,” Barry mutters.

“The break-in at LexCorp a few days ago,” Diana says, turning toward Bruce. “They were after metahuman data.”

He nods. “I was just thinking the same thing. Whoever arranged that could be the same person who built these.”

“Yeah, but who?” Arthur asks.

Bruce looks at Diana. “Where’d you find the first one?”

“Terrorizing tourists on the National Mall,” she answers.

“You see anyone lurking around and watching?”

“No. But I was a little busy making sure it didn’t kill anyone.”

Bruce glances around the circle. “Anybody got any ideas?”

“I caught a glimpse into its operating system just before it self-destructed,” Vic says. “There’s only one place I know that makes systems like that. Systems like mine.”

For a moment, nobody says a word.

“You think someone from S.T.A.R. Labs did this?” Bruce says quietly.

“I don’t think,” Vic answers. “I know. No one else could have.”

There is another long pause.

“I was going to take this to A.R.G.U.S.,” Bruce says, gesturing at the halved android in front of him. “But if you’re worried about your father—”  
  
“If my dad was dumb enough to do something like this then he deserves to have Waller breathing down his neck,” Vic cuts him off. “I’ll be breathing down it too.”

Arthur puts a hand on Vic’s shoulder.

“It could be anybody in S.T.A.R. Labs,” Barry says kindly. “Maybe your dad didn’t even know.”

“Maybe,” Vic mutters. He does not seem convinced.

“You sure about A.R.G.U.S.?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah,” Vic answers. He gestures at the android. “I’ll help you take it over there.”

Bruce nods. He looks around at each of the League members. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning for breakfast in my suite. Hopefully we’ll have news from Waller on the liaison situation, and maybe some leads about who from S.T.A.R. Labs could construct something like this and why.”

“Um, excuse me,” Barry says, raising his hand.

“What, Flash?” Bruce sighs.

“Can we, like, sleep in? I just battled robot monsters—”

“Androids,” Vic corrects.

“Robot monsters,” Barry repeats, ignoring Vic. “I’m tired.”

“Seconded,” Arthur says, lifting his trident.

“Fine,” Bruce says, sighing again. “Lunch then.”

“Yessss,” Barry says, pumping his fist.

Bruce bends to gather up the android halves, and Vic starts forward to help him. Diana makes her way around them and toward Clark. He smiles at her.

“Is he still at the hospital?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“And he’s…?”

“Totally fine.”

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Hey D—uh, Wonder Woman?”

Diana turns toward Barry. He is rocking back and forth from foot to foot, his hands fluttering at his sides.

“Are you going to go get Steve from the hospital now?”

“Yes.”

He holds his hand out. “Can you...can you just wait right there? Just for a second?”

Diana frowns. “Okay?”

Barry is gone in a flash. Diana looks questioningly at Clark over her shoulder, and he shrugs in response. A few moments pass and then Barry is back, and he’s holding her suitcase and her purse. Diana looks down at them in surprise, and then back up at Barry.

“The hospitals are probably full,” Barry explains. “So you might have to wait for him. And you can’t wait in your armor. People will stare.” He holds up her suitcase. “I thought you might want to change but I didn’t want to, like, rummage through your stuff. So I just brought it all. I can take it back when you’re done.”

He fidgets, her suitcase brushing against his legs.

“I hope that’s okay,” he adds quietly.

There’s a faint hint of uncertainty in his voice, and Diana’s heart melts. She doesn’t show physical affection to the other members of the League in public, but she feels no such hesitation now. She moves toward him, puts her hand on one side of his face, and presses a kiss to the other. “My sweet boy,” she murmurs to him, quiet enough that only Clark will hear and only because he has super hearing.

When she pulls back, Barry’s face is the same color as his suit. “Uhh,” he says distractedly. “That’s...yeah. Okay. Hold on.” He zooms away from her, and then comes back empty handed. “I put them in the bathroom in our suite,” he explains. “That way no one will see you.”

“Thank you,” Diana says, smiling. “Which one is your suite?”

Barry points. “That one.”

Diana flies up to the suite. She changes quickly into a pair of jeans and a blouse, tucks her armor carefully into her suitcase, and then pulls her hair back. When she leaves the bathroom, both Clark and Barry are waiting for her.

Barry takes her suitcase from her, but she keeps her purse. His eyes widen a little when she hands over her sword and shield. “Whoa,” he murmurs.

“Be careful,” she tells him.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I won’t let anything happen to them, I swear.”

She smiles. “I meant be careful running with a sword.”

“Oh,” he says, grinning. “Yeah. I will. If you or Steve need anything else...”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she promises.

He beams. “Okay. See you later.”

He’s gone with a gust of air. Diana turns to Clark.

“Steve’s coat,” Clark says, holding out the gray woolen trench.

“Thank you,” she says. She pulls it on so she won’t have to carry it and tries not to think about the way the collar smells like Steve.

Clark holds out his hand. “Ready?”

Diana stares down at his hand, then up at him. “You are aware that I can fly, correct?” she says dryly.

“Not in civilian clothes you can’t,” he says. “Especially not in D.C. after something like this. Someone will see you.”

She purses her lips at him. He smiles and wiggles his fingers at her. Diana sighs, puts her hand in his, and then steps up onto his boots so that she is standing on his toes. Clark wraps an arm around her waist.

“Ready?”

“I suppose,” she sighs at him.

He laughs.

* * *

The emergency room is a madhouse.

There are a few harried looking nurses trying to triage patients and keep order in the waiting room. Diana watches them for a moment, trying to decide if it’s worth it to ask them if they know where Steve is. She doubts that they’ll know off the top of their heads, and she does not have the patience to be told that if she could just take a seat they’ll go check, so she moves on to plan B—sneaking back into the ER to find Steve herself.

It’s not hard. She’s discovered that if you act like you know what you’re doing and where you’re going, people just tend to assume that you do. She slips unnoticed past the triage nurses thanks to a crowd of flustered med students, and then she makes her way through the ER in search of her boyfriend. Nobody stops her.

Everytime she glances behind a curtain or into an exam room her heart lifts, and then immediately drops when she realizes that the patient isn’t Steve. Anxiety is starting to claw at her chest, dark and sharp, when she finally finds him.

He’s in the doctor’s lounge, of all places. He’s sitting in a chair that has seen better days, a magazine open in his lap and a styrofoam cup perched on the arm of the chair. When she opens the door he looks up, and Diana feels all the air rush right out of her lungs.

There is a trail of stitches along his right eyebrow and then up a few centimeters onto his forehead. His right eye is purple, swollen and bruised, and his cheekbone is puffy. His left arm is folded tightly against his chest in a sling.

“Diana,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

For a second, all she can do is stand there and stare at him—at his stitched face and wounded shoulder and Zeus knows what other bruises and injuries his clothes are hiding. She knows it could have been worse. It _has_ been worse—he was dead for a hundred years. But he’s not dead anymore. She got him back and somehow, miraculously, she’s still got him. He is battered and bruised and he scared the hell out of her but he’s alive.

Steve is staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s confused about why she’s still so far away from him. She doesn’t know why she is either. She lurches forward, and he moves too, and they meet somewhere in the middle of the room, their arms wrapping around each other, her breath stuttering into a sigh when he nuzzles into the curve of her neck and says, “God I missed you.”

Diana is careful not to hug him too tightly so she doesn’t crush his injured arm between them. Steve doesn’t seem to care—he holds her firmly against his body, his good arm wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her neck.

“Are you wearing my coat?” he asks after a moment, his voice muffled.

She strokes her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. “Smelled like you,” she answers.

He inhales into her skin and then a second later, his voice incredulous, he demands, “How do you _still_ smell good after all that?”

She laughs and leans back from him.

“Do goddesses not sweat?” he asks. “Do you just, like, glimmer with a heavenly glow that smells like flowers and sunshine?”

She brushes her hand over the uninjured half of his face. “I missed you too.”

He grins. “Yeah? How much?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t start with me, Steve Trevor.”

“Later then,” he says, his hand dipping lower on her back. “I’ve been making plans.”

“Hmm,” she hums noncommittally. She always wants him, but she cannot bring herself to banter with him right now because the bruising and the stitches on his face look even worse up close.

She lifts her hand and runs her fingertips gently along his swollen cheekbone. Her throat tightens, and it feels as though a weight is settling down onto her chest.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he tells her softly.

She studies the line of his stitches. “What did the doctor say?”

“Nothing broken, just bruised. Eight stitches. Concussion, but I don’t have a headache anymore. They said that’s good.”

“And this?” she asks, leaning back to brush her fingers along his injured arm.

“Separated shoulder, just like Clark said,” he answers. “No need for surgery unless I don’t heal right. And it’s not my dominant arm, which is good.”

She surveys the rest of his body. “What else?”

“Nothing. Bumps and bruises maybe, but nothing serious.” He leans closer to her. “I’m okay, Diana.”

She swallows around the tightness in her throat. “Are you in pain?”

“No. They gave me some meds.”

She nods and brushes his hair back from his forehead. “What are you doing in here instead of out there?”

“When the ambulances started bringing people in, they needed the beds. My nurse said I could wait in here for you.” He smiles wryly. “I think she thought if she let me wait in the waiting room that I’d leave.”

“They didn’t want you to leave?” she asks, her heart dropping in her chest. “Are they worried about complications?”

He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. They just uh, they need to talk to you.”

“Me?” Diana says in surprise.

“Yeah.” His face flushes a little. “I didn’t know how to fill out the forms. I mean, I did the best I could. But I didn’t know your address or anything, and they were asking about insurance stuff and I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she cuts him off gently, brushing his hair back again. “I’ll take care of it.”

She can tell by the way he won’t look at her that he’s a little embarrassed. She doesn’t even bother trying to convince him that it’s not his fault he doesn’t understand how medical forms in the twenty-first century work. She just leans forward to kiss the embarrassment away.

He kisses her back enthusiastically, lifting his good hand to curl it around her neck. Somewhere behind Diana the door to the lounge swings open, and an amused laugh fills the room. “Never hard to spot a pair of newlyweds,” a voice says.

Diana pulls back from Steve in surprise and turns to see a short and squat brunette woman in scrubs beaming at them with her hands on her hips.

“You must be the wife I’ve heard so much about,” the woman says. She starts forward and holds out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Trevor.”

Steve’s fingers flex against Diana’s neck briefly and then drop. She can feel him watching her, wondering how she’s going to react to the news that they’re apparently married now.

She smiles and takes the woman’s proffered hand without a moment’s hesitation. “Please, call me Diana. And you are?”

“Esther,” the woman answers. She nods at Steve. “Real charmer you got here, Diana. Can’t fill out a medical form to save his life, but who cares when he’s got eyes like that?”

Diana glances at Steve. “I have always liked his eyes,” she admits.

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” Esther says. “Your accent is beautiful.”

Diana smiles. “Thank you. I’m from a very tiny Greek island that I’m certain you’ve never heard of. But I live in Paris now.”

“And work at the Louvre,” Esther says, nodding. “Steve told me all about it.”

“Did he now,” Diana says, turning toward Steve with lifted eyebrows.

She expects him to be blushing, so she’s surprised when he grins and slides his uninjured arm around her waist to pull her closer. “Can’t blame a guy for bragging,” he says. “It’s not every day that a soldier can convince a goddess to spend forever with him.”

Esther giggles in delight, clearly oblivious to the fact that _goddess_ is not just a term of endearment and _forever_ is not just a turn of phrase. _This is spy Steve,_ Diana realizes as she watches him wink roguishly at Esther.

“The goddess would prefer if her soldier didn’t end up in the ER on their next trip abroad,” Diana says pointedly.

Steve winks at her too. “Yes ma’am.”

Diana turns to Esther with a polite smile. “I’m happy to start on those forms if you’ve got them.”

“Ah, yes,” Esther says. “Give me one second. They should be right outside the door here.”

She bustles out of the lounge. Once the door is closed, Diana turns to Steve. “Newlyweds?” she asks.

He grins at her sheepishly. “I figured moving to Paris to live with my new wife would be a good enough excuse for why you knew all the information that I didn’t.”

“Clever.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she murmurs, smiling. “I don’t mind being Mrs. Trevor for the night.”

His eyes widen a little, and then flash with a wicked gleam that she’s growing quite accustomed to. “You know,” he says, leaning a little closer, “newlyweds usually—”

Diana puts a finger over his mouth. “Don’t start with me, Steve Trevor.”

He nips at her finger. “Yet,” he says. “Don’t start with you _yet._ ”

She smiles at him as Esther comes back into the room. “We’ll see.”


	23. Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am sure you all have noticed by now (some of you more loudly than others), I don't write sex scenes. I usually just, you know, fade to black and let WonderTrev have their privacy. There are many reasons for this. Mostly it's because I find those scenes to be extremely difficult to write well—you have to be detailed but not too detailed, and it's a whole new way of writing characterizations and the relationship, and if it doesn't add something to the story then there's really no point in writing it at all. Also, I think that most of the time it ends up being far sexier to let the reader imagine what's happening instead of spelling it all out. 
> 
> So, I tried really hard to write my way around this scene. And damn it, I just couldn't. Diana's battle to let Steve in seemed less meaningful, less conquered if you will, when I faded to black. Furthermore, the last bits of dialogue in this chapter are a pretty pivotal moment for Diana and Steve's relationship going forward—and when the buildup wasn't there, they came out sounding hollow and forced.
> 
> All that to say, this chapter has a sex scene. I recognize that sex scenes are not everyone's cup of tea. If that is you, then please stop reading when the clothes start coming off and I'll see you back here next Friday for the next chapter. (Though you might want to scroll to the very end and read that last bit of dialogue so that you're not confused.) If, on the other hand, you are okay with sex scenes...well, then, here you go.

When Diana and Steve finally get back to the hotel, it’s late. 

Diana shuts the door behind her, turning the locks and then sliding the chain in place. When she turns around she finds Steve standing a few steps away from her in the entryway, studying his face in a mirror hanging on the wall. Diana walks toward him and slips her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his good shoulder. 

“What do you think?” she whispers.

He strokes his hand along her forearm and meets her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “I think I look like a racoon.” 

“A handsome racoon,” she amends, pressing a kiss to his neck. 

His gaze flits downward toward his injured shoulder. “There’s a bump on my shoulder where the end of my bone sticks out because of the separation,” he tells her. “The doctor said it’ll probably always be there.” He meets her eyes again and gives her a lopsided grin. “You still gonna think I’m handsome if I’m permanently deformed?”

She blinks at him, the words pinballing around in her skull. _Always be there._ _Permanently deformed._

She knows that the bump will be barely noticeable and that his shoulder will likely heal just fine. She knows he’s just trying to make a joke, and that he wants her to tease him back. But knowing those things doesn’t stop the breath from catching in her throat. Suddenly all she can see is his body careening through the air, crashing into the edge of the table and then crumpling down onto the court; his head smacking hard against the floor, his face split open and bleeding down into his eyes. 

She hadn’t done anything to stop it because she didn’t know he was still in the arena. She should have. She should have known that he would never walk away even if she asked him to. She should have known that even if he couldn’t fight, he’d find some other way to help. She saw him just before he landed on the table, but by then it was too late—all she could do was watch in horror and scream his name, the blood in her veins turning to ice the same way it had that night in 1918 when she also could do nothing but watch.

“Diana?” Steve calls.

She snaps back to reality and loosens her arms from around him, pulling her body back from his. “Of course I will,” she answers, forcing a smile.

“Diana,” he says again, and this time she can hear the warning in his voice. She knows she’s been caught but she can feel the walls continue to rise around her heart anyway, the quiet but insistent voice in the back of her mind saying  _ This is not going to end well leave now before he breaks your heart again leave run leave. _

She won’t leave him. She can’t. But she does need some space to get ahold of herself, a moment alone to find her equilibrium so she doesn’t fall apart in front of him. It’s all hitting her at once, everything that could have gone wrong and everything that still could, all the grief and fear that she’d been able to push aside because she had people to save and androids to examine and forms to fill out. Now there is nothing to focus on but him and she can’t—her heart is racing in her chest and her legs feel a little weak and she isn’t—she needs to—

She steps away from him but he turns quickly, his good arm darting out to wind around her waist and pull her close again. He ducks his head toward hers.

“Don’t do that,” he tells her.

“Steve—”

“Please don’t,” he says. He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. His fingers flex against the small of her back. “You said you’d try,” he whispers. “That we would do it together.”

He’s right. She closes her eyes. She’s so good at so many things but she is  _ terrible _ at this. She hates how out of control it makes her feel, how helpless and vulnerable she feels letting someone else see how wounded she is from the world she’s supposed to be strong enough to protect. 

“I was scared while you fought the first one,” he murmurs quietly. “I know you’re a goddess. I never doubted that you could take care of yourself. I just...I didn’t like that you had to, you know? Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she says. She knows he means what he’s saying, but she also knows that he’s trying to help her by sharing first. She leans closer to him, one of her hands brushing over the uninjured half of his face and the other smoothing back along his ribs. “I just got you back, Steve.”

“I know.”

“Three days. We had three days before we ended up right back where we started.” 

“We’re okay,” he insists. “I’m okay.”

“This time you’re okay, but next time—”

“There is no next time,” he interrupts, pressing his forehead to hers. “We can’t live like that, Diana. We’ll drown in what ifs.”

She moves her hand down to his neck, sliding her fingers up under his jaw to press against his pulse point so that she can feel his heartbeat thumping against her fingertips. 

“Still beating,” he murmurs. 

“Steve,” she whispers. 

He slips his hand lower on her back. “Still beating.” 

He kisses her then, soft but sure, and she feels the need well up inside of her so quick and so strong that her entire body shivers with it. But she can also feel his injured arm caught between them in the sling, pressing into her body like a reminder of what happened, and she breaks their kiss before it even really starts.

He huffs in disappointment.

“We shouldn’t,” she says.

“We shouldn’t?” he echoes, his voice lifting into a question.

She bites her lip instead of answering. He slips his hand underneath her blouse, his fingers caressing the base of her spine the way he had their first night together in this century. She arches a little at his touch, and the need pulses sharply through her veins again. He’s watching her, and she knows he can see it in her eyes, just like he had that night in Veld. She wonders if he will lean forward and kiss her, but he doesn’t. He hangs back instead, his eyes searching her face, waiting for her approval. That only makes her want him more.

It would be comforting to be with him. She isn’t scared of losing him when there are lips to kiss and skin to touch. She can’t remember how it feels to be without him when he’s beneath her, on top of her, inside of her. But it is also dangerous. Her heart is never more exposed than it is when they are making love. Even this afternoon, in the middle of a laughter-drenched romp that made her feel as light as air, there had been a moment when their eyes met and she thought  _ No one has ever had the power to hurt me the way you do. _

There is also the not-so-small matter that she is capable of hurting him, too. She will not break his heart. Her fear may tempt her to leave, but she will not. It’s the physical aspect of it that she’s worried about—the bruises on his face, and the wound in his shoulder, and the nagging feeling that at some point one or both of them will get caught up in the moment and forget that he is injured, which will only hurt him more.

She is trying to find the words to explain everything that’s churning within her when he speaks.

“You know I don’t expect anything from you, right?” 

She looks up at him in surprise.

“Not tonight,” he continues. “Not ever.”

He has, she realizes, horribly misunderstood her hesitation. “Steve,” she starts, then stops. It’s the look on his face—the concern, the worry that he’s asked something of her that she does not want to give.

“Of course,” she breathes, holding his face in her hands. “Of course I know that.”

“Good,” he says. He steps away from her, reaching out to twine his fingers with hers. “Come on. It’s been a long day for you. You should get some sleep.”

It is maybe the most absurd thing she’s ever heard him say. A long day for  _ her? _ He thinks she needs  _ sleep? _ He starts toward the bedroom, but she does not follow. She stands frozen in place, and when their still joined hands keep him from moving any farther, their arms stretched out between their bodies, he turns toward her with furrowed eyebrows and a question clear in his eyes. 

She pulls him gently back toward her, closer and closer until they are breathing the same air and then she kisses him, her tongue slipping between his lips with the same purpose that her hands have as they roam over him. His mouth is cautious against hers, different than it was just a moment ago, so she moves closer and kisses him deeper until there is a nearly audible crack of electricity between them.

He leans away from her abruptly. She lifts her eyebrows at him, and he clears his throat. “Not that I don’t like kissing you,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Cause I really,  _ really  _ do. But if we’re not going to...I mean, at the moment I’m a little…”

His eyes flick downward, and then back up. She does not need to follow the direction of his gaze to know what he is referring to. She holds eye contact and reaches out to stroke her hand over the front of him. His eyes slam shut and his whole body goes still as a sharp exhale tumbles from his lips. She does it again, this time with just a little more pressure, and his hips twitch hard just before he darts his hand out to grab her by the wrist.

“Diana,” he says, his voice strangled.

“Hm?”

“I’m trying to...”

He does not finish. She tilts forward and brushes her mouth along the stubble of his jaw. “Stop trying.” 

He turns his face toward hers and she kisses him. “So you want...?” he asks quietly against her lips.

“I always want you, Steve.”

“But?”

She sighs and leans back. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

He smiles. “You haven’t yet.”

“You haven’t been injured yet.” She trails her fingers over his sling. “How does it feel?”

“Sore,” he tells her. “Like a dull ache. But I don’t think you’re going to hurt me.”

“I could.”

“No you couldn’t. You’re too careful.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his. 

“I trust you,” he murmurs.

She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Will you tell me if it starts to hurt?”

He nods. “Yeah.” She lifts her eyebrows at him, and he grins. “I promise.”

Diana weaves their fingers together again. She leads him past the doorway to the bedroom and into the living room. All the lights are off so the suite is dark, lit only by ambient city light filtering in through the windows. It’s quiet. She stops before the couch and turns to face him.

Steve glances at the couch, and then at her. “You got something against the bed?”

He is smirking at her but his voice is soft, as if he’s unwilling to break the stillness of the room. She smiles. “The headboard is screwed to the wall.”

“So?”

“So that means I can’t hang onto it.” She brushes her hand over his injured shoulder. “And I can’t hang onto you either. I need some type of leverage.” 

“So you can…” he starts, glancing at the couch. She knows the moment the mental picture forms in his mind because he drops his head and mutters, “Fucking  _ hell, _ Diana.”

She smiles and steps closer to him. She lifts her hands, hovering over the straps of his sling, and he nods at her. She takes it off slowly, holding his arm in place as she does so. She tosses the sling onto a nearby chair, and then lowers his arm gently down to hang at his side. She watches his face, but he winces only once and only briefly.

“Okay?” she whispers.

“More than,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her. 

She kisses him back, her hands sliding over the fabric of his Georgetown t-shirt. Taking it off intact will mean lifting and twisting his arm, and she knows that will hurt him.

“How much do you like this shirt?” she asks him.

He glances down at it. “It’s okay I guess.” He looks back up. “Why?”

She curls her fingers around the collar of the t-shirt and pulls. The fabric splits at the top, and she rips it gently all the way down and through the bottom hem. When she glances up at his face she sees that his pupils are blown wide with desire, his mouth slightly agape. She smiles and pulls the remnants of the shirt off of him, careful not to jostle his arm.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she whispers.

“Can you rip that one off too?”

“If you’d like,” she says, laughing softly.   

He nods fervently. “I mean, you could just rip all my clothes off from now on. That’d be totally fine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. 

She reaches out and brushes her hands over his abs. He flexes beneath her touch. She trails her fingers up, feather light, to his injured shoulder. She’s destroyed so many things with her hands. Buildings, weapons, monsters. She can shatter concrete, and bend metal. People are stunned by what she can do.  _ Miraculous,  _ she’s been told. But now, with Steve’s shoulder warm beneath her fingertips, she can’t help but think that she would much rather have been born to heal people than to kill gods. 

She bends forward and presses a gentle kiss against his shoulder, and then another. He lifts his good hand, slides it along the curve of her spine and up the column of her neck until he pulls her hair free of its band. It cascades down around her shoulders. He sifts his fingers through it. She moves her mouth along the curve of his shoulder, up his neck to his ear.

“You like my hair down,” she observes in a whisper.

He nods, his fingers threading through the strands. “It reminds me of Veld,” he murmurs. She leans back to look him in the eye. “Can you still remember it after a hundred years?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers truthfully. She shifts a little closer to him. “You called me an angel.”

He looks surprised. “Yeah, I did,” he says. His gaze trails over her face, and then he brushes his thumb along her cheekbone. “You were. You are.”

“You said it that first night too,” she murmurs. “After we fought.”

He glances down at her mouth briefly, then up into her eyes. “Do you like when I call you that?”

She nods. “Very much.”

He brushes his lips against hers and then murmurs, “Angel.” Diana’s heart stutters in her chest. “My angel,” Steve says again after another kiss. 

His hand slips beneath the hem of her blouse and he begins to slide the fabric upward to take it off. Diana catches his hand, and shakes her head. “I’ll do that.” She lowers his hand back down to his side. “You stand still.”

He smiles. “I’m not fragile.”

She traces her fingers over his arm. “It’s not you I’m worried about.” She forces herself to meet his gaze even though she feels vulnerable. “I need to look at you.”

He nods, understanding in his eyes, and turns his palms outward in a sign of surrender. “I’m all yours, then.”

She kisses his shoulder again once, twice, and then moves her mouth along his clavicle, her hands smoothing over his abs. He stands still as a statue, his chest rising and falling beneath her mouth. When she glances down, she can see his fingers curling into fists so that he won’t reach for her. 

She paces a slow circle around him, pausing over every bruise and every scar. She kisses each one, tasting and touching, mapping his body with her mouth and her hands. She lingers behind him at his shoulder blades, tracing over them with her palms and remembering how he fell onto the table, the way his back arched in pain. She slides her index finger down his spine, and when he arches a little she presses her mouth between his shoulder blades. 

When she’s satisfied that she’s kissed every one of his wounds, old and new alike, she moves back around to his front and kneels before him to take off his shoes and socks. She flattens her hands on his shins, and trails them all the way up his legs as she stands. 

She holds his gaze, hovering close to his mouth as she unbuckles his belt and pulls it off slowly. He tries, but seems unable to resist leaning forward to steal a kiss. She unbuttons and unzips his jeans. She pushes them down over his legs, bending before him to pull them free from his feet and toss them onto a chair, and then does the same with his boxers. Finally he is bare before her the same way he was in the bathing cave on Themyscira, and she takes a step back to admire him just as she had a century ago.

When she moves toward him again, her mouth finding his, he slides his hand possessively over the curve of her hip. She kisses him for a while, and then she feels him tugging on the hem of her blouse again. “Now?” he murmurs.

“No,” she says, smiling. She walks him backward toward the couch, and guides him gently down to sit. She bends over him and arranges some pillows for his injured arm to rest on.

“Okay?” she asks, looking up at him.

He’s staring down the v-neck of her shirt. He realizes he’s been caught and grins at her. “I’d be better if you took your shirt off.”

She straightens. “All right.”

She curls her fingers around the hem of her blouse, lifts it up and over her head, and tosses it over by his pants. When she turns back to him, he is staring at her with an open mouth.

“Anything else?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. 

“Everything else,” he answers.

She bites her lip around a smile. She watches him watch her take the rest of her clothes off. She is deliberate in her movements, slow and careful, her hands caressing her own skin far more often than necessary. By the time she’s finished he is flushed and desperate looking.  

He leans forward. “Come here,” he begs, his voice strained.

She closes the distance between them. He reaches out, his palm sliding along her stomach and upward as she lifts one knee onto the couch. She hangs onto his good shoulder for balance as she lifts her other knee onto the cushion, bracketing his hips between her legs and then settling back against his thighs. Their eyes meet. She reaches down between their bodies and strokes her fingers along him purposefully, watching as his eyes flutter closed.

She leans forward to kiss him. His mouth moves eagerly against hers. She likes the way he tastes, and the way he feels in her hand. She isn’t even thinking about  _ his  _ hand until it’s too late, and he’s already gliding his fingers slowly over the wet heat of her.

She chokes on her breath, breaking the kiss. He slides his fingers over her again, far too slowly to be anything but a tease. His thumb presses against her, circles slowly, and she leans into him and rests her forehead against the curve of his shoulder as heat sparks inside of her and starts to build. 

He pulls his hand away, and she sighs. “And you say I’m a tease,” she breathes.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to her neck. “English, angel.”

She hadn’t realized she was speaking something else. “You’re a tease,” she says again, this time in the right language.

“Maybe,” he says, nuzzling into her skin. “Sometimes I like to make you beg.”

Something in his voice catches her attention, even through the haze of want. “Sometimes?” she asks, lifting her head.

“Tonight I just want to make you forget,” he says, meeting her gaze. The sincerity in his eyes bowls her over. “I want you to forget what it’s like to be without me.” He rubs his thumb over her again and she inhales. “Let me love you,” he whispers. 

“Steve,” she says, trying to focus on something, anything except his hand. 

“Please, Diana.”

“Yes,” she sighs.

He wraps his good arm around her waist. He shifts them both toward the end of the couch, and then she feels his quads flex suddenly beneath her thighs and he stands. She knows he is strong enough to carry her, but he’s doing this with only one arm and so she hovers a little, making her body as weightless as it is in flight. He turns, bends forward, and sets her down on the couch. 

“Your shoulder,” she warns, brushing her hand over his injured shoulder as he kneels between her legs.

“Is fine,” he answers, pushing her gently back onto the couch cushions. His hand brushes over her hip and then pulls, and she follows his lead and scoots to the edge of the couch. He starts with her left knee, and kisses his way up to the crease of her thigh but no farther. He shifts his attention to her other knee. She watches as he kisses higher and higher, biting her lip against the ache of desire. He glances up, sees her watching him, and smiles.

“Don’t need it anyway,” he whispers. 

Before she can say anything in response he closes his mouth around her. She shudders, his name on her lips as her head falls back against the cushions, and everything gets a bit hazy after that.

He is as deliberate with her body as she was with her clothes. He works her up slowly and then leaves her lingering right on the brink again and again, just as he had once before. She sighs every time he stops but she does not ask him to finish her off. She wants it to last, wants to stay right in the dizzying middle of this moment for as long as possible where nothing else exists except him and the way he makes her feel.

Eventually it’s just too much. She is starting to arch for what feels like the thousandth time, and then he pulls back. She sighs, and this time his name is not a reaction but a request. 

“I love you,” he says against her thigh. 

She wants to say it back but then he presses his mouth against her, and he does that thing with his tongue and his fingers that always makes her—she can’t—she doesn’t—

Her eyes slam shut and her body arcs off of the couch, her fingers clawing at the fabric as the release hits her like a tidal wave. She’s saying something, nearly sobbing it, but she isn’t sure what it is, isn’t even sure it’s in English, and she can’t bring herself to care because the heat is so all-consuming.

As she floats back down, she is vaguely aware of Steve getting to his feet and then sitting down next to her on the couch. He bends over her and kisses her gently. When he skates his hand back down her body, she barely notices. She’s thinking about how he tastes like sex. 

When he presses his thumb against her again, she startles beneath him and breaks their kiss to curse in Greek.

“God, I love when you do that,” he says, pulling back from her lips.

She blinks at him, dazed, and he smiles at her and begins to circle his thumb. “Steve…” she starts, reaching down to press her nails into his forearm. 

He brushes his mouth against her temple and continues to work her despite her grip on his arm. “Come again for me, Diana,” he says.

His words send a flash of heat through her. Desire immediately begins to coil tightly in her belly. “Steve,” she breathes. 

He captures her mouth with his and she arches up toward him, her nails still digging into his skin. She whimpers a little in the back of her throat, her mind short-circuiting at the feel of him, her muscles tensing all over again. It builds hot and fast and she hovers just on the edge,  _ so close, _ and then—

“Come for me, angel,” Steve whispers.

She does.  

She is more or less incoherent for a minute or two after that. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He sits next to her, stroking his hand through her hair, kissing along her brow and whispering to her. 

When she finally turns to look at him, he smiles. It is not the kind of arrogant, self-satisfied smile she has seen from men before. It’s soft and affectionate, an earnest thing that makes her fall in love with him all over again.

“Is that what you planned?” she asks him, still a little breathless.

He tilts his head at her. “Planned?”

“At the hospital,” she sighs. “You said you’d been making plans.”

“Oh,” he says. “I mean, I kind of pictured that we’d be in the bed. But yeah, the plan was always to see if I could make you do that more than once.” He grins. “Consecutively.”

She reaches out to stroke her fingers over him. He sucks in a breath, his body going still as his eyes flutter closed. “And what about you?” she murmurs. 

He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “What about me?”

She closes her hand around him and moves it slowly. “Don’t you want to come too?” she asks him in Greek. 

“Fucking hell,” he groans, and she grins because she really loves when he says that. “I have no idea what you just said to me,” he mutters. 

“Do you care?” she asks in English.

“No,” he answers. His hips buck up against her hand. “Just don’t stop.”

“Speaking in Greek or moving my hand?”

“Both,” he pants.

She uncloses her hand from around him anyway and he groans in disappointment. She rises from the couch and swings her leg over his body, straddling him as she had before. She lowers her mouth toward his and murmurs to him in Greek, “I think I have a better idea.”

“Diana,” he begs, his hand tugging on her hip. “Please, can you just—can I—”

She sinks down onto him in one slick, hot slide, and his sentence trails off into a strangled moan. She pauses for a minute, adjusting. His fingers spasm at her hip, but he does not rush her.

“I love you so much I can barely stand it,” she whispers to him in Greek.

He slides his hand across the small of her back and kisses the hollow of her throat. She reaches around him and curls her fingers around the back of the couch. She starts to move, pulling her hips back and then pushing them forward agonizingly slow, and he buries his face into the curve of her shoulder. 

She takes her time. He whispers things to her as she moves above him, things that she knows he only says in the dark, declarations and promises that are punctuated with her name and the occasional curse. She whispers them all back to him in Greek, and he shudders and begs her not to stop. 

Eventually she quickens her pace. It does not take long after that before he’s close. She can feel him trying to hold back, trying to make it last, and she bends forward and puts her mouth next to his ear. 

“Let go Steve,” she whispers in English, moving her hips just right.

He does.

She murmurs soothing words against his skin as he spirals back down to earth. When his breathing slows she tries to slip off of him, but his arm tightens around her waist.

“No,” he says into her collarbone. “Stay.”

She does. She brushes her hands through his damp hair and kisses his forehead. “I love you,” she breathes against his skin. 

He slides his hand up her spine and lifts his mouth to hers. They kiss lazily, their chests rising and falling against each other, the sheen of his sweat slick against her skin. She’s the one who pulls back. She traces her fingers along his clavicle and bites her lip.

“You okay?” he whispers to her, pushing her hair back from her face.

The hesitation from earlier is gone. The quiet voice in the back of her mind is nowhere to be found. She smoothes her hand along his injured shoulder and says exactly what she’s thinking. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” 

She doesn’t know if she’s talking about that night in 1918 or tonight. It doesn’t really matter. 

“You did,” he murmurs, gazing up at her. 

She shakes her head. 

“Diana, look at me.” 

She does. 

He smiles, and pushes his hand through her hair again. “Death isn’t always physical.” The smile fades a little from his mouth. Sincerity and sadness dance through his eyes. “You saved me,” he whispers.

Her throat tightens. She thinks about that night in 1918, about hoisting a tank above her head and preparing to drop it on the huddled form of Isabel Maru. 

Diana presses her forehead against Steve’s and whispers to him, “You saved me too.” 


	24. Twenty-Four

Steve is taking a bath with Diana.

It’s fitting, he thinks, that they’re ending this day the same way they started it. This morning, he had been the caretaker. Tonight, she is.

Diana is leaning back against the frame of the bathtub. Steve is in the circle of her arms, his shoulder blades resting against her chest, his body cradled between her legs. She has a washcloth in her hand. It is doused with her pale pink body wash—the one that he likes the smell of so much—and she is brushing it gently over his skin, her mouth close to his ear and dipping forward occasionally to kiss the side of his neck.

For a while, neither of them say anything. He likes that they can talk for hours about anything and everything. He likes the sound of her voice, and he likes her ideas and opinions and view of the world. But he also likes that she does not fill silence just to fill it. He likes that they can just be together, silent but comfortable, and that she does not expect him to entertain her the way so many other women have.

When she says his name though, her voice low in his ear, he is not disappointed. He turns his face toward her mouth, his hand sliding along her calf. She passes the washcloth gently down his arm, and starts to tell him how he saved her.

He listens with rapt attention. She tells him that after he died, Ares taunted her and flung Maru at her feet. She says that she lifted a tank with the express intention of crushing the woman to death—that she wanted to do it, and would have, if it hadn’t been for what he’d said.

When she’s finished, he thinks about all the ways she’s fought to let him into her life and her heart. Last night after her nightmare. This morning when he joined her in the shower. Tonight when they got back from the hospital, and just now in this bathtub. He realizes what a hypocrite he’s been, asking her to let him in when there is still so much he’s scared to tell her.

So, he smoothes his hand over her knee and tells her what she saved him from.

It’s different for him. She said that he saved her from making a terrible mistake that would’ve haunted her, but she did not save him from that. By the time she pulled him from the waters of Themyscira he’d already made his mistakes. He’d killed a dozen Marus of his own, lied to dozens more, slipped so far into the darkness of mankind that he just kind of figured that’s who he’d become and who he’d always be. It wasn’t until he met her, loved her, was loved _by_ her, that he realized his darkness didn’t have to define him.

He doesn’t tell her all the things he’s ashamed of. They’d be up all night, and he does not want to overwhelm her. But he’s also aware that if he chickens out now, he’ll always chicken out. He wants to be brave for her, wants to stare fear in the eye without blinking just like she does, so he picks the worst thing he’s ever done and tells her about it.

He tells her _everything_ about it. What he was told to do, and what he did, and who he did it to, and why. He tells her the justifications he repeated to himself over and over. He tells her about all the alcohol he drank after, and the woman he paid to take to bed to make himself forget, and how none of his attempts at coping worked because what he’d done was like a film on his skin, a stain on his soul that he couldn’t wash clean no matter how hard he tried. Sometimes he dreams about it and he tells her that too, tells her that when he wakes up breathless a part of him is glad because it means that he’s still paying penance for what he’d done.

When he’s finished, his hands are shaking. He trusts her but he is still afraid that she will love him less, that she will realize how much better she could do when it comes to choosing someone to spend eternity with.

Diana’s arms wrap tighter around him. “I love you,” she murmurs in his ear.

Steve closes his eyes _._ “Still?” he whispers.

“Always,” she whispers back.

He lifts his hand, grabs hold of one of hers, and turns it to kiss the inside of her wrist where her pulse thrums. “You’re an angel,” he says against her skin.

“I love you,” she says again.

Another long silence follows. Steve doesn’t notice. The water is warm, and Diana’s body is wrapped around his, and she still loves him. Other than the very dull ache in his shoulder, he can’t think of a single thing that’s not right.

“Steve,” Diana says in his ear again.

“Hm?” he hums lazily.

She trails the washcloth over his chest. “There’s something else we have to talk about.”

He snaps his eyes open. Anxiety flutters in his chest, and he forces himself to take a deep breath to dispel it. “What’s that?” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

She drops the washcloth and smoothes her palms over his skin instead. “Don’t do that,” she murmurs in his ear.

“Do what?”

“Tense up.” She plants a kiss beneath his ear. “It’s not bad.”

He relaxes back into her, but only a little. “What is it?”

She exhales slowly. “Bruce met with Constantine. The transfusion won’t work. It won’t stop you from aging. It would kill you.”

He opens his mouth, ready to ask how that’s _not_ bad, but she beats him to it.

“There’s another way though.”

He stares down at her knee sticking out of the bathwater. “What is it?”

“A spell. Constantine is a sorcerer, and there’s a spell that will stop you from aging. But the spell is in a book, and the book is in A.R.G.U.S. headquarters.”

“Headquarters?” he repeats. “Like, where we were today?”

“Yes.”

Steve traces his thumb over her knee. “Waller won’t give it to us.”

“No.”

She doesn’t say it, so he does. “We’d have to take it. Steal it.”

She sighs. “Yes.”

He’s dying to turn around and look at her, but her arms are still wrapped tightly around him. He wonders if it’s easier for her to talk to him when he’s not looking at her. It was certainly easier for him to tell her his horror story when he didn’t have to worry about seeing disappointment in her eyes.

“Bruce knows someone,” she continues quietly. “He seems to think she can get in and out without being detected. If she succeeds, she brings the book to us and then we give it to Constantine. He performs the spell, and then he keeps the book when he’s finished.”

Steve mulls over her words. “Do you think Bruce’s friend can really steal something from right under Waller’s nose?” he asks. “From headquarters, no less.”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “I’ve never met her. But I know Bruce, and he does not put his confidence in people who haven’t earned it.”

“And Constantine and the book?”

She sighs again. “The same. I don’t think Bruce cares for Constantine, but he would not let him keep the book if there was a chance it would end badly for others.”

“And you?” Steve asks, still caressing her knee. “What do you think?”

She curls forward, her arms tightening around him. “I’m not thrilled that we’d be stealing from the U.S. government,” she admits softly. She traces a scar on his chest idly. “It feels selfish.”

He hates every word of it, but he says it anyway. “Then we won’t do it.”

She shakes her head. “Immortality doesn’t grow on trees. There might never be another way.”

“We could look.”

“We could.”

“You don’t think we’ll find one though.”

“No.”

He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. “If Bruce trusts Constantine, then wouldn’t the book be better off in his hands than in Waller’s? We might be using it for us, but it would also benefit the rest of the world.”

Diana hums in what sounds like amusement. “That is exactly what Bruce said.”

“You really do have a type,” Steve tells her.

“Stubborn, pragmatic, and sacrificial,” she muses.

“And hopelessly in love with you,” he adds.

She weaves her fingers through his. “He’ll move on. He just needs time.”

He wonders briefly if it will bother her a little when Bruce does move on. Steve doesn’t doubt that she loves him, and that she’s content with her decision to be with him. But feelings don’t just disappear overnight, and what she and Bruce had was clearly real, whether they’d officially defined it or not. Steve wouldn’t blame her if she struggled at first.

He pushes the thought away. It doesn’t matter. She loves him, and they will cross that bridge if or when they come to it.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“It’s not my decision,” Diana answers. “It’s your life. Your body.”

“Yeah, but your opinion matters to me. I don’t want to do something that you’re not comfortable with. Something you might resent me for.”

“I wouldn’t resent you,” she says immediately, her body tensing.

“Okay,” he says, smoothing his hand along her leg. He feels her relax against him again. He turns his face back toward her. He still can’t see her, but she presses her lips against his temple and that’s good enough for the moment.

“You know what Etta used to say?” he asks her.

“Hm?”

“She used to say that when you’re in charge of taking care of other people, you have to make sure you take care of yourself too. If you don’t take care of yourself, then you’re no good to anybody.”

Diana’s lips hover close to his skin. “Being with you would be taking care of myself,” she murmurs.

He lifts his good shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe,” he says. “You’re the only one who knows if that’s true. But I think after a century of putting other people first, it might be okay for you to do something for yourself for once.”

A beat of silence passes. Steve waits.

“What do you want to do?” she asks him quietly.

He palms the side of her thigh. “I want to steal the book and spend forever with you.”

She sighs against his neck, the same kind of contented sigh that he’s heard from her before when he says something sweet.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

Her lips move over the shell of his ear. “I want to steal the book and spend forever with you.”

He tilts his head toward her. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Diana does not say things she doesn’t mean. He believes her. But there is something lingering in the air between them, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

“I feel like there’s a _but_ coming,” he tells her.

She dips her head down to kiss his shoulder. “I still think we need time to just be together. This is a big decision, and I want you to be sure.”

“Okay,” he says, moving his hand across her knee again. “So let’s set a date then. We’ll pick a day, and when it comes we’ll sit down and talk about it again. And if we both still want the same thing, then we’ll call Bruce and tell him to call his friend.”

“How long?”

“You tell me.”

She skims her fingertips across his bicep, down to his elbow and then back up. “A year.”

“Okay,” he agrees immediately.

Her mouth moves over his neck again. “I know it seems like a long time.”

“No it doesn’t. We’ll be together. Living together, working together. Dating.” He frowns a little, wondering if he’s missed something. “Right?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says decisively.

He shakes his head. “Then it’s not a long time at all. It’s the same thing we’ll be doing after the spell—I’ll just be aging instead of ageless.” He squeezes her knee. “Might have a few more wrinkles in a year, but if you don’t mind then I don’t.”

“You don’t have any wrinkles now,” she says, laughter threading through her voice. God, he loves her laugh.

He shakes his head. “I am an old man,” he declares.

“You didn’t seem old out there on that couch,” she says in a low voice.

“Ugh, don’t start with me,” he tells her, grinning. She laughs, her arms wrapping around his chest. He lifts his hand from the bathwater and traces it along her forearm. “I’m too old to keep up with you.”

“I’m older than you.”

“You’re also a goddess. You don’t even sweat.”

She laughs. “I do too.”

“Well that just makes it worse. You sweat and _still_ smell divine. It’s like being brilliant and powerful and beautiful wasn’t enough for the gods, they had to make sure you could enthrall all of my senses at once too. I never even stood a chance.”

“Flatterer,” she murmurs in his ear.

“I don’t think it’s flattery if it’s true,” he counters.

Her arms tighten around him. “I love you too.”

He lifts her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist. “I was hoping you did.”

She kisses his shoulder. “Come on,” she murmurs. “The water is getting chilly. You’ll catch cold.”

“I don’t suppose you get sick either,” he says.

“No,” she replies in amusement.

“Of course you don’t,” he mutters.

She laughs.

Steve gets to his feet and steps out of the tub, water sluicing down his skin. Diana follows. He reaches for a nearby towel. He turns to hand it to her, and she takes it with a smile but stops him from reaching for the other towel.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

He almost tells her that even with one arm he’s still capable of drying himself, but then he remembers that she was perfectly capable of washing her own hair this morning and she let him do it anyway. So he grins at her and wiggles his eyebrows and says, “Just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. She dries him off, and then dries herself off. He lets her help him into a pair of boxers, and then tries not to wince as she helps him back into his sling. When she reaches for a white undershirt of his, he frowns.

“Shouldn’t we have put that on before the sling?”

She smiles. “It’s not for you.”

She pulls the shirt on over her own head, and then twists her hair into a bun at the base of her neck. Steve watches her admiringly.

“You look better in my clothes than I do,” he says.

She smiles and leans toward him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” she whispers just before she kisses him.

This time, she lets him lead her into the bedroom. He climbs beneath the sheets awkwardly, trying not to jostle his arm. She climbs in after him, but does not fold herself into his side as she has done before.

He shakes his head at her and holds out his good arm. “No way. Come here.”

She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but he cuts her off. “Come on, Diana. Don’t make me beg.”

She sighs a little, and then shifts carefully toward him. She tangles their legs together and drapes her arm across his stomach beneath his arm. She settles her head down onto his chest, close to the strap of his sling.

He’d wondered earlier, when the nurse first strapped him into his sling, if he would have trouble falling asleep. He shouldn’t have. He’s exhausted. He’s warm and clean, and Diana is soft against him, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on his skin.

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

He means to say it back, but he’s not sure he manages to get the words out before he falls asleep.

* * *

Steve wakes a few hours later, groggy and in pain.

He blinks up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed, and tries to force himself to go back to sleep. He can’t. His shoulder hurts. His head hurts. Everything hurts. He sighs.

Diana’s head lifts off of his chest. She brushes her hand over his cheek. “Does it hurt?” she whispers.

He closes his eyes at the feel of her hand and nods.

“Hold on,” she whispers.

She’s gone a second later. He moans in annoyance. He wants her close. He doesn’t know where she would have gone. He’s not sure how she even knew he was awake. His shoulder throbs, and he winces. He closes his eyes and tries to find something else to think about, something that will distract him from the pain. Diana is his favorite distraction as of late. He tries to remember the feel of her body wrapped around his on the couch. It doesn’t work.

He hauls himself up into a sitting position and winces. His arm muscles are cramping, and the straps of the sling are digging into his skin. He decides to take it off. His sleep-addled brain manages to remember how to do it, but not before a sharp bolt of pain lances through his shoulder.

“Shit,” he hisses, hanging his head.

The mattress dips slightly, and he lifts his head to see Diana. He half expects her to chastise him for taking the sling off, but she pulls it from his lap without comment.

“Here,” she murmurs, holding out her hand. There are two white pills in her palm. He takes them and pops them into his mouth, and then takes the glass of water she offers to swallow them.

He hands the glass back to her, and she sets it on the table next to the bed. When she turns back to him and climbs onto the bed, she has something else in her hand.

“This will be cold,” she says. “But it will help.”

He glances down at it, and realizes it’s the ice pack they left the hospital with. She’d put it in the freezer before they got in the bathtub.

He crinkles his nose. “Cold.”

She smiles. “But it will help.”

The ice pack has a strap, and she bends over him to strap it around his body. He grunts at her when the ice touches his skin, but she doesn’t stop until it’s firmly in place. He hangs his head and tries to breathe deeply. Diana’s fingers comb through his hair.

“Hmm,” he hums, tilting toward her.

She moves her fingers lightly along the back of his head, and then down onto his good shoulder. She moves her hand down over his back next, and then presses into the muscle with her fingertips.

“Mhmm,” he says approvingly.

Diana’s hand drops from his back, and the mattress dips again. Steve huffs in disappointment and opens his eyes, but Diana is no longer sitting next to him. He blinks, confused, and then he feels both of her hands smooth along his shoulder blades. He arches a little, surprised but pleased. Her legs stretch out on either side of his body and then she starts to massage his back, her fingers digging gently into his muscles.

He hangs his head and moans in satisfaction. He thinks she is probably smiling, but her hands on his back feel too good for him to turn around and see. Instead he just sits there, reveling in the way her hands are moving across his back and up over his neck with just the right amount of pressure and gentleness.

He thinks he dozes once or twice. His shoulder is numb. The meds are kicking in. Her hands are magic. _You really are an angel,_ he wants to tell her, but all he can manage to do is sigh in contentment.

He startles awake when he feels her pulling the ice pack off his shoulder. “Diana,” he says sleepily.

“Shh,” she breathes in his ear.

He relaxes immediately. She slides her hands over his skin and pulls him back into the cradle of her hips to rest against her chest.

“Go to sleep,” she says.

“You can’t be comfortable,” he mumbles, leaning back against her. He thinks she’s resting against the headboard. He should look. But he’s so tired...

“I’m fine,” she whispers. Her hands coast over his skin. “Go to sleep, Steve.”

“Diana…”

“Go to sleep.”

He does.

* * *

He wakes again a few hours later. The room is brighter, but if the sun has risen it’s only barely across the horizon. He sits up.

Diana’s hand caresses his back, and then her chest presses into his shoulder blades. “Okay?” she murmurs in his ear.

He blinks a few times, and then remembers that he fell asleep against her while she was sitting against the headboard.

“Sleep next to me,” he says.

“I was fine,” she tells him. He can hear the amusement in her voice.

“Sleep next to me,” he says again anyway.

She uncurls herself from around his body and then slides underneath the sheet next to him. This time he’s the one who folds himself into her side, his head on her chest. He drapes his injured arm carefully across her stomach, and shifts his body until he’s in a position that doesn’t hurt it.

“Better?” she asks, her mouth pressed to his forehead.

“Mhmm,” he mumbles.

She trails her fingertips gently over his arm. _Your hands are magic,_ he thinks again.

He falls asleep.

* * *

Steve thinks he wakes again once or twice after that, maybe even ices his shoulder again too, but he isn’t sure. Everything is kind of hazy. Diana’s voice is soft. Her hands are divine. The sheets smell like her, and he is warm. There’s no war outside their window. He is injured, but he’s alive and he’s with her.

When he finally slides into full coherence, he is on his back. The room is bright with daylight. He blinks at the ceiling. His shoulder aches. He turns his head, but the left side of the bed is empty. He turns to the right, and his gaze falls on Diana.

She is sitting next to him, her legs beneath the sheets and her back against the headboard. There is a book open in her lap, and she is holding a mug to her lips. She hasn’t realized he’s awake yet, so he takes advantage of the opportunity to study her. Her dark hair is pulled back. She is still wearing his white shirt. Her shoulders are relaxed, an elegant curve against the dark headboard. Her jawline is sharp, and her throat moves as she swallows her tea.

She is breathtakingly beautiful.

She turns the page, glances over at him, and then smiles. “Hi,” she says, her voice soft.

He says exactly what he’s thinking, his voice scratchy with sleep. “You’re beautiful.”

Her smile deepens. She lifts her hand from her book and brushes it through his hair. “How do you feel?”

He moves his arm a little bit and then winces. “Sore.”

She leans away from him and toward the side of the bed, and then turns back with a bottle in her hands. She shakes out two pills, and holds them out to him. He lifts himself into a sitting position, sighing at the effort, and then takes the pills from her.

“Coffee or water?” she asks quietly.

He squints over at her, and that’s when he realizes there is a cart draped with a white tablecloth next to the bed. “Coffee?” he says hopefully.

He watches her pour him a mug. When he takes it from her, he brushes his fingers over hers and meets her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says sincerely, and he wonders for the millionth time how on earth he managed to get someone like her to fall in love with him.

He downs his pills, and then leans back against the headboard. She watches him.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. She leans toward the cart again, and pulls a white box off the top. She sets it between them and pulls the lid back, and he’s greeted by the sight of some very large, very colorful looking doughnuts. “According to Barry, they’re the best doughnuts in D.C.,” she says.

He looks up at her. “Barry was here?”

“He stopped by earlier,” she answers. Her eyes are bright. “I put on pants this time.”

He laughs. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“These are my favorite,” she tells him, pointing at a doughnut in the box. “They’re filled with raspberry jam.”

He nestles his mug carefully between his legs and then lifts the doughnut from the box and pulls it apart. Sure enough, raspberry jam oozes from the middle. He hands her one of the halves, and she smiles and takes it from him. He takes a bite of his half, and moans appreciatively.

“You have good taste,” he tells her.

“Yes,” she agrees.

He looks over at her in time to see her lick a small spot of raspberry jam from the edge of her thumb. He blurts out what he’s thinking again.

“I like this.”

She looks at him and smirks. “So you said.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, the doughnut is good. But I meant _this._ ” He gestures between them. “Waking up next to you. Eating breakfast with you.”

He looks down at the box of doughnuts and thinks about that night in Veld when she asked him what people do when there is no war. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to do something like this,” he confesses.

“Steve,” she whispers. He can tell by the tone of her voice that she understands what he means. She leans toward him over the doughnut box and kisses his cheek. He turns his face toward her, and rests his forehead against hers. “I’m glad it’s with you.”

“I’m glad too,” she whispers.

He hadn’t meant to darken the morning, so he leans away and nods at the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”

“Marcus Aurelius,” she answers.

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” he says, taking another bite of his doughnut.

“He was a Roman emperor,” she explains. “I have found his meditations to be quite insightful in regard to living life as an immortal.”

Steve swallows the rest of his doughnut and briefly considers pointing out that she’s infinitely smarter than him, yet another piece of evidence that she really is way out of his league. “That sounds fascinating,” he says instead.

When he looks up at her, she is smiling. “I think that was a lie,” she says.

“No,” he argues. “I’ve just never read it.” He gestures at the book. “Read it to me.”

She lifts her eyebrows.

“I mean it,” he insists. “Read me some of it. I bet it’s really interesting.”

“It’s in Greek.”

He leans closer to her and, sure enough, the book is written in Greek. He stares up at her. “Why are you reading it in Greek?”

“Because he wrote it in Greek,” she answers as if that makes perfect sense.

“Right, of course,” he says dryly.

She smiles at him. “It was the first language I learned how to speak. I miss it.”

“Is that why you spoke it last night?” he asks, grinning.

“ _You_ asked me not to stop,” she points out.

“But _you_ spoke it first,” he counters. “When you were...enjoying yourself.”

She purses her lips around a smile. “I have not done that before,” she admits, her eyes flitting briefly down to his mouth. “Or at least not that I know of. None of my previous partners told me that I did.”

He puffs his chest out a little. “I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”

“Yes, I suppose there is,” she acknowledges, smiling wider.

They stare at each other for a second, the memory of her whispering in Greek while making love to him hanging in the air between them.

“Can you translate it for me?” he asks her, letting the moment pass.

She surveys him in amusement. “You really want me to read it to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right then.” She holds out her half of the raspberry-filled doughnut.

“I’m going to eat that if you give it to me,” he tells her.

“That’s the idea,” she says, amused.

He takes it from her and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. It’s her smile he’s after, and she gives him what he wants—she smiles, and rolls her eyes, and then swipes at a spot of jam on his bottom lip with her thumb. She puts her thumb in her mouth, and then looks down at her book and opens to the page where she left off.

“It is in thy power,” she starts, “to live free from all compulsion in the greatest tranquility of the mind, even if all the world cry out against thee as much as they choose, and even if wild beasts tear in pieces the members of this kneaded matter which has grown around thee. For what hinders the mind in the midst of all this from maintaining itself in tranquility and in a just judgment of all surrounding things and in a ready use of the objects which are presented to it—”

He’s not sure what she says after that. He’s sure Marcus what’s-his-name is probably a perfectly interesting philosopher, and that even though he feels the need to write in Greek and say things like _thy_ and _thee,_ his thoughts are still worth examining. But it’s hard to examine deep philosophical concepts when Diana is the one reading them, because she’s just so...Diana.

Maybe someday he’ll be immune to her. Maybe he’ll get used to the fact that she speaks hundreds of languages, and reads ancient philosophers during lazy mornings in bed, and is so selfless and kind that she seems to actually enjoy taking care of him when he is whiny and exhausted. Maybe he’ll be able to hear her voice without thinking it’s lovely, and see her face without wanting to brush his fingers across her cheek.

Maybe. Probably not. She’s just not the kind of woman you get used to. She’s too extraordinary.

Diana stops reading. He snaps his eyes up to look at her. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because you are not listening,” she answers with a smile.

“I am too,” he argues.

She arches an eyebrow.

“It’s early,” Steve tries again. “I haven’t finished my coffee. And you’re very distracting.”

“Mhmm,” she hums, shutting the book.

“Maybe if you read it in Greek,” he suggests as innocently as he can.

“I am not reading to you in Greek,” she tells him, laughing.

“Why not?”

“Because Greek makes you lascivious.”

He blinks at her. She smirks. “That was the sexiest way you could have possibly said that to me and you know it,” he says to her accusingly. “You are a horrible tease.”

She murmurs quietly to him in Greek, her eyes alight with humor. He has no idea what she said. It doesn’t matter.

He throws his head back against the headboard dramatically and sighs, “Zeus if you’re up there, your daughter’s going to be the death of me. Send help.”

She laughs, but whatever response she’s planning to make is cut off by the chiming of her phone.

Steve snorts. “Salvation by cell phone.”

Diana pulls her phone off the bedside table and taps the screen a few times. “Bruce wants the League to meet in his room for lunch in half an hour.”

“Lunch?” Steve repeats. “What time is it?”

“Nearly noon,” Diana answers, smiling.

“You let me sleep half the day away,” he tells her.

She leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. “You needed the rest. Come on. Time to go to work.”

_They have breakfast, they go to work…_

Steve can’t help but grin. “Yes dear.”

* * *

By the time Steve and Diana get to Bruce’s suite, the entire League, with the exception of Arthur, is already there.

Everyone greets them when they enter, a chorus of _Hey guys_ and _Good morning_ that feels both warm and sincere. Steve glances around at all of them smiling at him, and then down at Diana’s hand that’s still woven through his own, and feels a funny sort of tug in his chest.

“Better get some food before the black hole eats it all,” Vic says to Steve, patting him lightly on the back with a grin.

“I heard that,” Barry calls out around a mouthful of sandwich from the other side of the long dining table.

“You were supposed to,” Vic says, grinning at him. “You’ve eaten five sandwiches already.”

Barry swallows and then gestures at Alfred. “Dude’s got me covered.”

“I ordered him ten lunches,” Alfred announces dryly.

Steve gapes at Barry, and Barry grins at him. “My metabolism’s almost as fast as me.”

“I sure hope so,” Steve says.

“Captain Trevor,” Alfred says. He holds out a brand new iPhone. “I was told you’d be needing a new one. It’s already set up just like your previous one.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, letting go of Diana’s hand to take the proffered phone. He smiles apologetically at Alfred. “Sorry you had to go do that.”

“Not to worry,” Alfred says, waving him off. “Master Wayne routinely shatters his phones.”

Bruce snorts in agreement from the head of the table.

From the chair on Bruce’s left, Clark smiles. “I put your food over here, guys,” he says to Diana and Steve, gesturing at the chairs across from him.

“He’s the only one fast enough to keep Barry from swiping it,” Vic mutters from next to Steve.

Suddenly Diana’s hand is right in front of Steve’s face. She’s holding a shiny red apple. “The hell?” Steve mutters, looking at her.

“Your aim sucks,” Vic says to Barry.

Barry’s face is bright crimson. “Di…” he starts.

“Don’t throw food,” Diana says, giving him a stern look. “You would have hit his stitches.”

“Right, yeah, my bad,” Barry says, nodding vigorously. “Sorry Steve.”

“I didn’t even see it coming,” Steve says, blinking at Diana.

“Yeah but she did,” Vic chuckles. “Perks of dating a goddess.”

Diana takes a bite of the apple and winks at Steve. “Come on,” she says softly, nudging him toward the chairs Clark pointed out.

Steve drops into the chair next to Bruce, who nods in greeting. Clark smiles at Steve warmly from the other side of the table. “How’s the arm?”

“Good,” Steve says. “I’ll be happy to get out of this sling though.”

“Nah, just enjoy it,” Barry says, leaning backward so that his chair is balanced on its two back legs. “When I was twelve I broke my wrist and I got waited on hand and foot.”

Diana casts a disapproving look in his direction as she reaches for a stainless steel carafe in the center of the table. Barry shrugs. “What? I didn’t say _you_ had to wait on him.”

“Who else is going to do it?” Vic asks. “You?”

“I’m busy,” Barry says, shoving half a sandwich into his mouth.

“Shocker,” Bruce mutters.

Vic guffaws. Barry glares at him. “Besides,” the speedster says. “We all know you’re going to do it anyway, Di. Whether he asks you to or not.”

“Do what?” Diana asks, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of Steve.

“Fuss,” Barry answers with a grin.

Diana arches an eyebrow at Barry. Clark leans across the table, and when Steve glances at him, the Kryptonian tips his head in Diana’s direction. “She fussing over you, Steve?”

Steve tries and fails not to grin. “She’s been very considerate,” he says neutrally.

“Considerate,” Clark repeats in amusement. “Like Florence Nightingale, I’m sure.”

“Di’s a fusser,” Vic adds.

Barry nods. “Yep. Lots of fussing.”

“You are all aware I’m sitting right here, correct?” Diana interrupts dryly.

Bruce snorts. “Don’t let them fool you, Diana. They’d be lost puppies if you stopped fussing over them.”

“I hope you include yourself in that,” Barry says pointedly. “We all remember how she fussed over you when you got the flu.”

Nobody laughs, but when Steve glances around the table he realizes that everyone—Alfred included—is trying very hard not to grin. Bruce levels a glare at the speedster. “She did not _fuss_ over me.”

“She made soup, dude,” Barry says. “From _scratch._ ”

“I seem to remember having to make two batches because someone ate most of the first after complaining that they, too, were feeling under the weather,” Diana observes.

Barry’s face flushes. “That was Arthur.”

“What was me?” Arthur asks from the doorway.

“Nothing,” Barry says, shoving a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.

“Your lunch is there, Mr. Curry,” Alfred says, nodding at the chair next to Vic’s.

“Nice,” Arthur says, dropping into the chair.

“Now that we’re all here,” Bruce says, leaning back from his plate.

Barry raises his hand. “I would like it to be noted for the record that once again, Arthur is later than I am.”

“Shut up and eat your Cheetos, kid,” Arthur says.

“Hush you two,” Diana orders.

“I’ve got some updates,” Bruce says into the silence. “I spoke at length with Amanda Waller about the androids. She agrees that whoever made them had access to a considerable amount of resources and some technological advances that are not even close to being publicly available.”

“Does she think they might have been made by S.T.A.R. Labs?” Clark asks.

“She acknowledged that it’s possible,” Bruce answers. “Vic and I both shared our concerns. She has a team looking into it.”

“Did you mention the break-in at LexCorp?” Diana asks. “And the metahuman data?”

Bruce nods. “Yes. She’s looking into that too. If or when she finds something, she’ll be reaching out to our liaison.”

There is a brief, stunned silence where nobody says a word. Steve looks over at Bruce, and finds that the billionaire is smirking at him.

“Does that mean…?” Barry starts, then trails off.

Bruce’s eyes stay fixed on Steve. “There are some forms to fill out and some meetings scheduled for this afternoon,” Bruce says. “But the deal is done. Steve is the Justice League’s official liaison to A.R.G.U.S.”

At the other end of the table, Barry leaps from his chair and whoops in triumph. Vic pounds his metal fists on the table. Alfred is grinning. Arthur raises his sandwich and winks, and Clark beams from the other side of the table.

Steve turns to look at Diana. She smiles at him, her eyes alight with pride and affection, and slips her hand gently over his knee and squeezes. Steve reaches beneath the table and weaves his fingers through hers. There’s another tug deep in his chest, and he finally recognizes what it is.

2018 feels like home.


	25. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: There will be a chapter 26, but it’ll be the epilogue and will begin after a time jump. So, for all intents and purposes, this is the last chapter. Last chapters are for tying up loose ends. And I’ll be real with y’all, when I took stock of what loose ends needed tying up, WonderBat was the biggest. 
> 
> If you go back and reread their interactions, I think you’ll see what I mean. They definitely ended things. But that was back when Diana and Steve were still doing their adorably frustrating I LOVE YOU SO MUCH BUT I AM AFRAID YOU DON’T LOVE ME BACK dance, and so the last time Diana talked to Bruce about their relationship she wasn’t actually with Steve. Add to that the fact that Bruce and Diana never really admitted how they felt about each other to each other—and the fact that Bruce’s defense mechanisms shut down the two instances when Diana actually did try to talk about how she felt—and you’ve got yourself a big ol’ loose end. 
> 
> Anyway I’m sorry, but even after considering how much some of you guys hate WonderBat, I can’t just leave it untied. It’s not fair to Bruce (who needs some closure so he can go fall in love with someone else) or Diana (who is pretty torn up about hurting Bruce) or Steve (who deserves to work with Bruce and be with Diana knowing that they’ve both firmly closed the romantic chapter in their relationship). Plus, Diana’s got some truth she needs to drop on Bruce that will help him grow. So, consider yourself warned. Skip past it to the WonderTrev if you must.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. The League spends the afternoon in meetings, talking to serious looking men in suits and watching as Steve signs stack after stack of forms. Amanda Waller looks both annoyed and pleased by it all, and Diana is amused to find that the director seems unwilling to look her in the eye for very long.

By the time they get back to the hotel, Diana can tell that Steve is exhausted and in pain. Barry suggests dinner at a nearby pizza joint, but Diana politely declines. She and Steve order room service instead, and then melt into the couch and each other to watch some TV. Steve falls asleep almost immediately. Diana lays with her head against his chest, his heartbeat thumping strongly in her ear.

Eventually, she rouses him and leads him to bed. Steve cuddles close to her beneath the sheets, his body warm, his fingers combing sleepily through her hair. Just before she drifts off, Diana presses her lips to his skin and thinks, _I would have waited a thousand years for this._

* * *

They take the Fox back to Gotham early the next morning. The members of the League linger in Bruce’s kitchen once they return, spending a few last moments together before they go their separate ways again.  

“Miss Prince,” Alfred says, stopping next to Diana as she talks with Clark. “The jet is fueled and the pilot ready to take you and Captain Trevor to Paris. I’d be happy to take you both to the airport. No rush, of course. I merely wanted to make you aware.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Diana says, smiling. She glances around the kitchen and then frowns. “Where is Bruce? I have not had a chance to say goodbye to him.”

“He got a message on his phone and disappeared,” Clark answers. “Said he had something to take care of.”

“I believe I saw him take the elevator down to the Batcave,” Alfred adds.

Diana nods. “I think I’ll go check.” She looks up at Clark. “Are you headed back to Metropolis?”

He nods. “Yeah. Let me know when you’re back in the States, though. Lois wants to see you.” He grins. “And meet Steve.”

Diana laughs. “Of course.” She rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Take care, Kal.”

He smiles at her the way he always does whenever she uses his Kryptonian name. “You too, Diana.”

As Diana rides the elevator down to the Batcave, she finds herself thinking about just how much has changed in such a short amount of time. It’s been almost a week since Bruce picked her up from the airport a day earlier than she needed to be here. Almost a week since she rode this elevator down to study some League-related rumors, only to smile at Bruce and call him out for fabricating reasons just to see her. Twenty-four hours later she rode the same elevator with a mug of tea in her hands and Alfred at her side. Seconds after that she came face to face with Steve after a century apart, and nothing else mattered anymore. There was only Steve, and their unexpected second chance.

When the elevator stops, she steps off and walks noiselessly down the hallway. When she turns the corner, she finds that Bruce is not in front of his monitors or at any of the tables. She takes the stairs down to the first floor. She’s still thinking about Steve as she descends the final stair and looks up, and that’s when she finds herself confronted with the sight of Bruce in the arms of a woman that she does not know, their heads bent together and their lips only a breath apart.

Diana immediately freezes. She is helpless against the pang of jealousy that stabs through her heart, vicious and unexpected enough that it steals the breath right out of her. An instant later, she is infuriated with herself. She made her choice, and she did not choose Bruce. She does not regret her decision. She is desperately in love with Steve, and she very much wants Bruce to move on and find someone who will love him the way she loves Steve. If Bruce has already done so (his hands on the woman’s waist seem to imply he may have at the least found a new bedmate), then she is glad.

But still, another small and insistent throb of envy spasms through her chest.

She steps backward, ready to slip back up the stairs unnoticed, but it’s too late. Her movement catches Bruce’s eye. He looks up, his eyes widening at the sight of her, and he pushes—no, _shoves_ —the woman away from him.

“Oh come _on,_ Bats,” the woman purrs, but then she notices that he is not looking at her. She turns, and her eyes meet Diana’s from across the room.

Diana smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She glances at Bruce. “I’ll come back.”

“No,” Bruce says immediately. He takes a large step away from the woman. “You should stay. She’s leaving.”

The woman turns to Bruce with her eyebrows lifted. Diana watches as a grin spreads across her lips. “Are you blushing?” the woman asks incredulously.

Diana glances at Bruce, and is surprised to find that there is indeed a faint tinge of color in his cheeks. “No,” Bruce growls.

The woman turns back toward Diana. “Bruce Wayne is blushing,” she declares, a hint of disbelief in her voice. Her eyes narrow. “Which means _you_ must be the reason he hasn’t been returning my calls.”

The woman’s eyes rake over Diana’s body. There is curiosity in her gaze, but admiration too. Diana knows immediately that it is the interested look of a woman sizing up her competition.

“Can’t say I blame you, Bruce,” the woman says in a low voice. “I’d never leave the house either.”

Bruce looks offended at that. “We’re done here,” he says. “I’ll be in touch when there’s news.”

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” the woman says, ignoring Bruce and starting toward Diana. She holds out her hand. “I’m Selina Kyle.”

Diana shakes the proffered hand. “Diana.”

Selina lifts her eyebrows. “Just Diana? Like Madonna, or Prince?”

Diana smiles but makes no response.

“Attractive _and_ mysterious,” Selina muses, glancing in Bruce’s direction. “You two are twinsies.”

Bruce seems very annoyed by the word _twinsies._ Diana gets the feeling that’s exactly why Selina said it.

“I hope you won’t hold what you saw against poor Bruce,” Selina says, turning back to Diana. It’s clear by the look on her face that she very much hopes Diana _will_ hold it against Bruce. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that he has trouble focusing on one woman at a time.”

A strong impulse suddenly throbs in Diana’s chest, an urge to smirk at Selina and say, _If he hasn’t been returning your calls even when I’m on another continent, then I’d venture to guess he’s had no trouble focusing on me._

She swallows the words, disgusted with her baser instinct. “Bruce is free to be with whomever he pleases,” she says instead, smiling.

Selina blinks at her. “Where on earth did he find you?” she murmurs, trailing her eyes over Diana’s body again. A wicked sort of smile curves over her lips, the kind of smile that makes her look like the cat that ate the canary. “You know, if you’re that open-minded—”

“Enough,” Bruce interrupts, his voice a snarl. He glares at Selina. “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Selina. It’s time to go.”

Selina winks at Bruce, and then turns back to Diana with an arched eyebrow. “Pleasure to meet you, Diana.”

Diana tips her head. “Likewise.”

Selina turns on her heel and struts away. She trails her hand along Bruce’s chest as she passes him, and he clenches his jaw and casts a long-suffering look up at the ceiling. Diana watches as Selina swings one of her long, leather-clad legs over a glittering black motorcycle. She tosses one last grin over her shoulder and then slips a helmet on, revs the motorcycle to life, and roars out of the Batcave.

When the sound of the motorcycle dies away, Diana finds herself standing in the midst of a very loud silence with Bruce.

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t interrupt.”

She smiles at him, trying to lighten the mood. “Certainly looked like it.”

Bruce shakes his head. “It wasn’t what it looked like.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “We have a complicated history. That’s all. It was nothing.”

“It would be okay if it was something,” she tells him gently.

His jaw clenches again. “Because then I’d be over you?”

His voice is hard and accusatory. Diana’s heart twists painfully in her chest. She presses her lips together and looks away from him. She has been caught up with Steve and Waller and the League, and other than Bruce’s brief outburst a few days ago in his kitchen ( _You know why,_ he’d told her, and she did), it’s been easy to pretend that everything is okay between them.

Suddenly, it’s not so easy. She can still feel the faint burn of jealousy in her chest. The heartache in his voice is clear, even through the anger, and she feels like she can barely breathe through her guilt. She’s spent a century trying to protect people. She hasn’t always succeeded, but she’s never intentionally caused pain. Not until now.

She hears Bruce sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says. She looks back at him. “I didn’t mean to…” He sighs again instead of finishing.

“Don’t apologize,” she tells him. “I never meant to hurt you, Bruce. But that doesn’t change the fact that I did. You’re allowed to be upset.”

He shakes his head. “We don’t need to do this.”

“Don’t we?” she challenges. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me. You can lie to Alfred and Clark and whoever else you want, but not to me. We have never lied to each other.”

“You’re right,” he says, his shoulders straightening. “We just don’t talk so we don’t have to.”  

His words feel like a slap to the face. He’s right. They talked about sex. They talked about the League. They talked about work and politics and books and movies. But they never talked about how they felt _._ The truth was always there, hovering between them. She knew it was more than casual sex. She knew he was falling for her and she was falling back, but she never asked him about it and he didn’t ask either. They just kept living their lives, sleeping together when they were in the same city and texting about everything except their relationship when they weren’t.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s talk then.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Clearly it is.”

“Are you still with Steve?”

“Yes.”

“Then it doesn’t matter. You made your choice, Diana. And you’re not going to change your mind.”

His voice is quiet and even, but she is not fooled. She knows him. She can read the hard line of his straightened shoulders and the blazing intensity in his eyes. There is anger simmering just beneath the surface of his calmness, a wounded rage that she has seen firsthand only once or twice before. He’s trying to stifle it. Maybe for her sake, or for the League’s. Definitely for his own, because she knows that of all the things Bruce dislikes, being vulnerable is chief among them—and there is nothing more vulnerable than admitting that he is hurting.

“It’s not about changing my mind,” she tells him. “It’s about salvaging our relationship. We didn’t always share a bed, Bruce. We were friends. Partners.”

“We still are,” he argues. He frowns. “Unless you don’t—”

“Of course I do,” she answers before he can finish. “That’s why we have to talk about this. We tried moving on without talking about it, and it obviously didn’t work. We should have known better. We can’t just leave a wound untreated and expect it to heal.”

“Am I the wounded one?”

“We both are.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

He lifts his eyebrows at her.

“I know you,” she tells him. “You’re not fine. You’re angry and you’re hurting. Sooner or later all those feelings are going to come to the surface, and you’re not going to be able to stop them. Our work with the League is dangerous enough without adding a ticking time bomb to the mix.”

“I’m not a child, Diana. I’m capable of handling my emotions.”

“For Zeus’s sake, Bruce,” she sighs. She presses her fingertips into her temples. “Can you stop being so defensive? Just for one second? This isn’t a pity party. It’s not just about you. I’m in love with Steve. But that does not change the fact that I had feelings for you, too.”

There is a brief flash of surprise on his face, but it disappears so fast she wonders if it was even there at all. His mask is firmly back in place. He shrugs. “We slept together,” he says as though they’re talking about what they ate for breakfast. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“It was more than sex, Bruce,” she cuts him off decisively. “It wasn’t convenience or boredom or lust. I cared about you. I wanted to be with you.”

He stares at her, stunned. The words hang in the air, echoing into a silence that’s rising to a deafening crescendo. Diana watches him. She can’t understand why he looks so shocked. It’s the first time she’s ever explicitly told him that she wanted to be with him, but he can’t be _that_ surprised by it, can he? She knew they were headed in that direction. Didn’t he?

The look on his face is telling her he didn’t.

Understanding dawns slowly. She’d thought they never talked about how they felt because neither of them was sure how to make it work, or if it was worth the risk to the dynamics of the League. Now she realizes that was only why _she_ never brought it up. He didn’t bring it up because he thought she didn’t want anything more than what they had.

_World’s greatest detective and he still can’t read a woman,_ she thinks in exasperation.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know that,” she says.

“Diana,” he starts. He does not finish.

She has to work very hard to keep from rolling her eyes, but she can’t resist another sigh. “By the gods, Bruce,” she murmurs. “You’re a superhero with matchless observational skills and you couldn’t tell how I felt about you?”

“You’re hard to read.”

“So are you,” she says, smiling a little. “But I managed.”

He blinks at her.

“You could have just asked.”

“I was going to,” he says. “On Saturday. After Barry left.”

“Barry brought Steve back on Saturday,” she says.

He nods. “Yeah.”

For a moment, all Diana can think about is what it must have been like for Bruce to see her reunited with Steve—kissing Steve—on the same night he’d been preparing to ask her if she had feelings for him. Her memories of that night are crystal clear, but all of them are of Steve. She hadn’t paid attention to anyone’s reaction to their reunion because she was too busy reveling in it.

Maybe that’s why Bruce is so hurt. It’s not that she chose Steve. It’s that it wasn’t even really a choice. Once she knew it was actually Steve, and not some cruel hallucination conjured up by one of the dozens of enemies she’s made over the years, she didn’t even hesitate. How could she? She’s _always_ been in love with him, even when he was nothing more than a photograph and an antique watch. When he was suddenly alive and kneeling before her, just as handsome and brash as he’d been on Themyscira, there was nothing else to do except pick up where they left off.

She’d never spoken about Steve to Bruce. She’s sure Bruce had his suspicions, given her reaction to the photograph he’d procured for her, but it remained another thing they never talked about. Without any background or context, without knowing just how deeply entwined Steve was around her heart, Bruce must have been dumbfounded by her reaction to Barry’s surprise. He’d implied as much when she broke things off. _You’re really still in love with him? After a century of being apart?_

She had tried to tell Bruce that she cared about him. _It meant something to me too._ But now she sees that she was too vague, and that it was too little too late. She doesn’t blame him for assuming that she never really cared about him. There weren’t many other logical conclusions he could draw, given how easy it was for her to leave him for a man she hadn’t seen in a century.

“You didn’t ask either,” Bruce points out, breaking into her thoughts. “You never said anything.”

“Because I didn’t know how we could have made it work,” she answers honestly. “We live on separate continents. Neither of us are great communicators, so long distance would have been difficult. I would’ve hated being hounded by the press. You would’ve hated telling the League. If we talked about it and decided it wouldn’t work, we would have felt like we had to end it. And I didn’t want that.”

“We were doomed either way,” he murmurs.

“Maybe,” she acknowledges. “But it didn’t feel doomed when I was with you.”

He folds his arms over his chest. Usually it makes him look bigger, more intimidating. This time it makes him look like he’s trying to protect himself.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks.

“Because you were right. We never talked about us, not even when we ended things, and we can’t move past something we haven’t defined. It’s just going to keep hanging over us like a cloud. And I don’t want that for us, or for the League.”

“So am I supposed to…?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks wary. If their conversation wasn’t so serious she would laugh, because it’s the most Bruce Wayne expression she’s ever seen.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she assures him. “I’m just trying to be honest. I should have told you how I felt. I shouldn’t have ended things without telling you, without making sure you knew that choosing Steve had nothing to do with how I felt about you. I cared about you, Bruce. What we had was real. But Steve’s the love of my life.”

Bruce is silent. Diana waits, but not for long. She does not want to pressure him. Just because she feels the need to be honest doesn’t mean he does.

“I should go,” she says quietly, turning toward the stairs. “Alfred offered to take us to the airport. I know that—”

“What Selina said about other women wasn’t true,” he interrupts. She looks up at him in surprise. His face is impassive, but his eyes are fixed on hers. “There was only you.”

She nods. “I know.”

There is a brief but significant silence. Finally, Bruce lifts one shoulder in a resigned shrug. “I wanted to be with you too.”

Her heart aches in her chest. “I’m sorry we didn’t get that chance.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, Diana,” he says, shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She won’t argue with him because she doesn’t want him to assuage her guilt. That’s not his responsibility, and it would be selfish of her to ask. He’s also right. She didn’t technically do anything wrong. But even still, she bristles a little at his dismissal of her culpability. She didn’t hurt him on purpose, but she did hurt him. And she _hates_ that. She hates that she can’t undo it or fix it. She hates that she can’t heal him.

But maybe someone else can.

She glances toward where Selina’s motorcycle had been parked. “If you’ve got an opportunity to move on you should take it,” she tells him. “I want you to be happy.”

“You mean with Selina?” he asks.

He is smirking a little, and she’s not sure why. “If she’s who you want,” Diana answers with a shrug.

“I don’t think she’d be a wise choice.”

“Why not?”

His smirk deepens. “She’s a thief.”

Diana realizes suddenly who Selina Kyle is—she is the friend Bruce told her about a few days ago, the woman who is apparently skilled enough to steal something from the headquarters of a clandestine government agency, right out from under the nose of someone like Amanda Waller.

But that does not explain why she couldn’t make Bruce happy.

“So what?” Diana asks him.

“So _what_?” Bruce repeats incredulously.

She lifts her shoulder in another shrug. “The first time you and I met, we were both trying to steal something. You’ve also recently put quite a bit of effort into convincing me that stealing from the federal government is acceptable.” Bruce glowers at her disapprovingly, but Diana’s never been intimidated by his glares. “Why is it different for us than it is for her?” she presses.

“She does it only for profit,” Bruce answers. “For herself.”

Diana briefly considers reminding him that stealing a spell book from Amanda Waller so that Steve can be immortal is more or less the definition of doing something for herself, but she doesn’t feel like fighting again.

“Have you asked her why?”

He scoffs. “The why doesn’t matter.”

“The why _always_ matters, Bruce.” She holds her hands out. “Look around you. You are standing in an underground cave filled with millions of dollars of equipment. You wear a suit with a bat on it. You built a team of superheroes and saved the world and you did it for a reason. Your why matters. And if yours matters, then hers does too.”

Bruce doesn’t argue. He looks down at the floor, his forehead wrinkled in thought and his jaw set.

“She knows that you are both Bruce Wayne and Batman,” Diana says to him. “Clearly you trusted her at one point.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell her that.”

“Then how did she find out?”

“Long story.”

Diana studies him. She knows him well enough to know that _long story_ means it actually is a very long story. But she also suspects he doesn’t want to talk about it. She won’t push him.

“She hasn’t told anyone who you are,” she points out instead.

“Not that I know of,” he hedges.

“You would know if she had.”

Bruce sighs and continues to glower at the floor.

Diana takes a deep breath. “Look, Bruce,” she says quietly. “Maybe she’s not right for you. I don’t know her enough to say. I have no idea what your history is.”

“So why are you trying to force it?”

“I’m not,” she says. “I just want you to be aware, that’s all. You and I, we see the worst of people. We expect it. We have to. It makes us good at our jobs. But it also means we’re not always adept at recognizing the good in them too. I would hate for you to write someone off that didn’t deserve it.”

He looks up at her. “You’re talking like you’ve done it before.”

“I have,” she admits. “Steve is a liar. He is a murderer, and a smuggler, and a thief. But he is also a good man. And he makes me very happy.”

Bruce’s eyes dart back to the floor. He is a few yards away from her but Diana leans forward anyway, her voice low. “I learned a long time ago that you can’t judge people because they don’t make the same decisions you do. Not until you know _why_ they made those decisions. Nobody is all good, all the time.” She smiles. “Not even me, despite what you seem to think.”

He smirks at that.

“She’s pretty,” Diana adds after a moment’s pause.

Bruce arches an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she asks, smiling. “She is. She reminds me of a Mossad agent that I used to know.”

“And by _used to know,_ you mean…?”

She smirks. “I think you know what I mean.”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “Always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think you are surprised.”

Bruce finally, for the first time all day, smiles. “No, I’m not.”

Diana smiles back. “Is she the one who will steal the spell book?” she asks.

He nods. “Yeah, if you’ve decided that you want it.”

“We do. Just not right away.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her. “I would’ve thought that you’d want it as soon as possible.”

“If it would make him invincible, I would,” she answers. “But it won’t. It will only stop him from aging, and he is not old enough that another year will matter. It’s also permanent. Once it’s done, he cannot change his mind. Eternity is a long time. Having had no say in my own immortality, I don’t wish the same for anyone else. I want him to take the time to think it over. To be sure it’s what he wants.”

Bruce nods. “Fair enough. Whenever you’re ready, just say the word and I’ll call her.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Of course.”

She holds his gaze. “For everything,” she clarifies. “A.R.G.U.S. and Waller. Constantine and Selina. Steve’s identification papers. You even gave him clothes to wear.” She folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head. “I owe you a great debt, Bruce. And I don’t know how to repay it.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Diana. You and I have never kept score. I don’t want to start now.”

“Fine,” she agrees. “But I am always in your corner. I know you do not like to ask, but if there is ever anything you need from me, it’s yours.”

He smiles again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She glances at the clock on one of the nearby monitors. She and Steve need to get to the airport, but she’s not sure how to end this conversation. When she glances back at Bruce, he is watching her knowingly.

“Goodbye, Diana,” he says.

She wants to hug him. She knows she cannot. “Goodbye, Bruce.”

* * *

Shortly after Bruce’s jet takes off from Gotham, Steve drops down onto the leather sofa next to Diana. He stretches his uninjured arm across the cushion behind her. He’d ditched his sling as soon as they boarded the plane, but he’s still holding his injured arm close to his body.

“This is insane,” he says, staring around the cabin. “I can’t believe people fly like this.”

Diana smiles at him. His wide-eyed wonder at the modern world never fails to make her want to touch him, so she doesn’t resist—she reaches out and brushes her hand over his knee.

“Normal people don’t fly like this,” she says. “Only billionaires.”

“And their superhero colleagues,” he says, turning to look at her with a grin.

“Yes,” she agrees, reaching up to push his hair back from his forehead.

His smile falters. “You okay? You’ve been quiet ever since we left Bruce’s.”

She turns toward him. She knows that he’s struggled with being jealous of Bruce. She understands why. It would probably be easier to just not tell him about her conversation with Bruce at all, but she refuses to keep it from him. She will not start their life together with a lie by omission, and she will not rob him of his chance to be the man she knows he is.  

“When I went down to say goodbye to Bruce, we ended up talking about our relationship,” she tells him softly.

“Yours and mine?” he asks.

“His and mine,” she clarifies. She waits, willing to answer his questions, but he does not ask any. “It’s been tense between us,” she continues when he doesn’t speak. “I think because we ended things so suddenly, and because we never really defined what we were. I didn’t want to leave without clearing the air.”

He considers her words. “Did it change anything for you?” he asks at last.

“No,” she says immediately. “I’m telling you because I don’t want to keep things from you, not because something changed. I’m in love with you, Steve. _Only_ you.”

He nods, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. Diana reaches up to trace the tips of her fingers over his brow, wishing she could smooth away whatever thought is making him look so serious. She does not want him to doubt her or their relationship.

“Look at me, love,” she says gently.

He lifts his gaze to meet hers. She strokes her fingers over his cheek the same way she had that night in Veld.

“I have never second guessed this,” she whispers to him. “Not even once. You’re it for me. You’re everything.”

He covers her hand with his own and turns his face so that he can kiss her palm. “Right back at you, angel,” he murmurs. He weaves their fingers together.  

“I can tell you what was said,” she offers.

He shakes his head. “I don’t need you to. I trust you.” He grins mischievously. “Unless you made a speech about all the things you love about me, in which case I am all ears.”

His smile is so beautiful and her heart is so full that all she can do is laugh, and then lean forward to kiss him the way she dreamed of kissing him for a century.

* * *

When Diana unlocks her front door and swings it open, Steve hesitates on the threshold.

Diana smiles at him, and he takes it as the invitation it is and steps into the apartment first. He sets his suitcase down—his twentieth century manners made him insist on carrying it himself, despite the fact that she is more than capable of carrying both his and her suitcase—and glances around with interest.

Diana shuts the door behind her and then watches him survey her apartment: the kitchen on the right, the long dining table straight ahead, the leather sectional couch and chairs that frame the fireplace and the TV hanging above the mantel on the left. She can tell that he is cataloging it all, making mental notes and filing questions away for later. He crosses the room and looks out through the French doors at her terrace. If he notices the Eiffel Tower in the distance, he does not say so.  

“So this is where you live,” he murmurs, turning to face her.

She smiles. “What do you think?”

“First impressions?”

She nods.

He glances back at the terrace and runs his fingers over her gauzy white curtains. “Lots of windows and thin curtains, so you like natural light. The terrace has some nice furniture so I bet you spend some time out there, but the way it’s set up is private. You can see the city, but no one can see you.”

He turns back to her apartment, his eyes roaming over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are built into the walls on either side of her fireplace. “You clearly like to read,” he says. “Plenty of bookshelves and they’re full of books.” His gaze lingers on the Monet painting hanging on the wall, and then darts over toward the sculpture on the coffee table. “Lots of art. It’s almost like you work at an art museum or something.”

She smiles. Her eyes follow him as he paces into the kitchen.

“Nice set of pots and pans,” he observes, nodding at the set that is suspended above the island counter in her kitchen. “At first glance it seems decorative, but I think it’s actually functional. You like having them within reach because you like to cook.”

“What makes you say that?” she asks.

“They’re faded and scratched,” he answers, running his index finger along the curve of a skillet. “And your spice rack has a whole lot more than salt and pepper in it.”

He looks over at the dining table, and then past it to the leather sectional. “Everything is clean but not stiflingly so. You’re neat, but this place is lived in. I’m not familiar with twenty-first century styles, but your furniture seems both elegant and practical.” He smiles at her. “Kind of like you.”

His gaze dips down to study her body. “Are there bedrooms?” he murmurs.

“Smooth,” she teases.

His eyes dart up to meet hers. He grins. “Just curious.”

“This way,” she says. She leads him through her living room and down the hallway. “Office,” she says, gesturing to the door on her left.

He peers into the room. “More books and art. Shocking.”

She huffs out a soft laugh. “Bedroom,” she murmurs, gesturing to the other side of the hallway.

He passes by her and into the master suite. She lingers in the doorway. He disappears into the attached bathroom for a moment. She does not follow. When he appears again, he wanders toward the French doors on the far wall.

“Terrace off the bedroom too,” he observes.

“Same one,” she clarifies.

He moves toward the archway leading to the walk-in closet and scrutinizes its contents. Finally, he turns to face her.

“Well?” she prompts.

He slides his hands into his pockets. “It suits you.”

She leans her shoulder against the doorframe. “I would like for it to suit us.”

“You’re more stylish than me. I’ve got nothing to add here, Diana. It’s perfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect.”

“This place is pretty close,” he says, smiling. “You’re pretty close,” he adds softly.

Warmth unfurls in her chest. She wonders if a day will come when she is immune to him, when the sincerity of his gaze and the way his voice dips low won’t make her want to draw him close. She already knows the answer is no.

“I want you to feel at home,” she tells him.

He crosses the room toward her. He is still not wearing his sling, so when he presses her back into the frame of the door there is nothing between their bodies. “I do,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing along her cheek as his fingers curl around her neck. “I don’t need to pick out curtains to feel at home, Diana. I just need you.”

She latches onto the collar of his shirt and pulls his mouth to hers. His lips are a soft contrast to the roughness of his stubble, and heat flares immediately in her body. They have not had sex since their first night at the Four Seasons, after they got back from the ER. Objectively, that is not a long time—just under forty-eight hours. But for Diana it suddenly feels like an eternity, and when Steve’s hand slips beneath her blouse and smoothes over her bare skin, she decides that they can discuss redecorating later.

And that, of course, is when his phone rings.

She breaks their kiss with a sigh. He is far more demonstrative, and groans. She bites her lip around a smile. “Damn technological advances,” he grumbles. He paws at the back pocket of his jeans. “I swear to god if this is Barry I will—oh.”

Diana glances down at his phone, which he is holding between them. The screen says _Amanda Waller._

Disgust throbs in Diana’s chest. “You should get that,” she says anyway.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He pulls back from her and steps into the hallway. “Hello?”

Diana briefly considers lingering in the doorway to listen in on his half of the conversation. He wouldn’t mind, she knows, but it feels too intrusive. He earned his position as the League’s liaison to A.R.G.U.S. because he is smart and capable. He was a soldier and a spy long before she met him. He does not need to be babysat.

So, she wanders into her bedroom and glances around. It’s sweet of Steve to say that he doesn’t need anything but her. She knows that he probably means it too, at least right now. But in a week or two, he will still feel like a guest if he can’t look around and see some of himself amongst her things. She knows because it’s exactly how she felt when she moved in with Etta after the war.

She steps into her closet. The first thing to do will be to make room for his clothes. He needs more clothes than he has, and so she may try to coax him out to the shops on Saturday. There is a restaurant she thinks he will like on the way to the closest men’s clothing store, a dive bar that serves American food. Perhaps she can tempt him with lunch and then lure him to the store afterward.

The ease with which she is already making plans for the future hits her suddenly, and she goes still.

At some point in the past few days, it sunk in that he was really back. She’s grown used to the sound of his voice, the quirk of his lips when he smiles, the athletic way he carries himself. She is no longer waiting to wake up and find that it’s all been an intricate nightmare. But there is something about the fact that they will be spending this weekend—and every weekend for the foreseeable future—together, something about the image of his clothes hanging amongst hers in a shared closet, that makes it all seem fresh again. All those years she longed for him, trying desperately to remember the color of his eyes and the feel of his calloused hands on her body. So many nights alone in her bed, the sheets cold on her skin.

She doesn’t have to strain to remember the shade of his eyes anymore. She only has to call his name and he will come in and look at her, eyes bright with affection. His hands will touch her again soon, maybe gentle with tenderness or maybe fierce with wanting. Her sheets will smell like him. She will roll over in the darkness of the night and find him sleeping at her side, warm and alive. He’s back, and he’s hers, and just like the night she came face to face with him in the Batcave she thinks her chest might crack open with joy.

She isn’t sure how long she stands there, thinking about the future stretched before them and all the things they could do with it. Wandering hand-in-hand through Parc de Bagatelle when the roses are in bloom. Summer picnics on the Champ de Mars. A fall trip to Ohio when the leaves are changing color. Christmas on a beach in the Maldives or skiing in the Alps or maybe here, tangled in the sheets and keeping warm the way they had in Veld.

She knows it won’t all be peaceful. She knows their work with the League will be dangerous. But right now, standing in an apartment that she bought thinking she’d always be alone, she has no desire to think about the difficulties of tomorrow. Right now, the only part of tomorrow she is willing to focus on is the promise.

She hears Steve behind her. When she turns around, he is stepping into the closet to join her. He reaches for her, his hands slipping around her waist, and she drapes her arms around his shoulders.

“What did Waller want?” she asks.

“Her tech team has been dissecting the android Bruce took her,” he replies. “The operating system is extremely advanced. Turns out it's something they’ve been working on at S.T.A.R. Labs.”

“So Vic was right.”

“Yeah. Apparently it’s called A-maze.” He shakes his head. “Seems kind of self-congratulatory to name your invention A-maze, but I still have trouble working my cell phone so what do I know.”

She smiles. “Do they know who created it?”

“Yep. A guy named Anthony Ivo. Works out of S.T.A.R. Labs’ office in Detroit. Bruce is on his way there now.”

“Bruce?” Diana says in surprise.

“Yeah I called him after I hung up with Waller,” Steve answers. “She wanted to send her guys, but I told her no. Nobody she’s got can interrogate the way Batman can, so if she wants this solved correctly before another android invasion then he’s the one for the job. Vic and Barry were still at the house, so I sent them to see what they could get out of Vic’s dad about Ivo. I figure Vic might need Barry’s unfailing positivity given how angry he seems to be at his dad.”

Diana blinks at him.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing,” she replies quickly. She smiles. “Twenty-four hours on the job and you’re already brilliant at it.”

He smirks at her. “You’re surprised.”

“No,” she disagrees. “Just proud.” He smiles, clearly pleased. “Do you need Wonder Woman to do anything?”

“Not at the moment. But I’ll keep you posted.” He traces his thumb along her hip. “Why are you standing in the closet?”

“I was thinking about making room for your clothes.”

He glances at a row of her dresses. “You don’t have to. I could use the closet in the office.”

“No. There’s plenty of room.” She combs her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. “I was also thinking that I’ve never done this before. I’ve never shared a closet with a man.”

His blue eyes are suddenly twinkling. She knows why, but she does not call him on it. “You okay sharing with me?” he asks.

“Absolutely.”

He looks around at her clothes once more, and then down at the upholstered bench that’s sitting nearby. “This is a very big closet,” he observes.

“Yes,” she laughs. “They call them walk-ins.”

“That’s very on the nose,” he muses. His gaze trails over a row of her shoes. “I like it. It’s nice.” He turns his attention back to her. She smiles at him. He pulls her a little closer, palming the arch of her back. “You know what else is nice?”

“Hm?”

“Your bed.”

Her smile slides into a smirk.  

“Nice and big,” he adds when she doesn’t answer. “Fluffy pillows. Warm blankets. Looks very comfortable.”

“It is,” she confirms.

He glances over his shoulder. “I see that you have a headboard.”

“I do.”

He turns back to her. “Is it, uh...is it screwed to the wall?”

“No,” she says, trying to keep a straight face.

“That’s nice,” he says, gazing longingly at her mouth.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?” he says, looking up into her eyes.

“It’s not my bed. It’s _our_ bed.”

He tilts his head. “Meh,” he says. “Not really. Technically, it’s—”

She cuts him off with a kiss. He hums at her appreciatively so she deepens it, her lips parting against his. A wicked sense of pride wells up inside of her when she feels his body respond instantly.

She walks him backward out of the closet, her mouth still fused to his. When the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the mattress he startles against her, breaking the kiss to look behind him. She takes advantage of his distraction and pushes him lightly, and he tumbles back onto the mattress. When he looks up at her, his eyes are wide with surprise and desire.

“Let’s make it ours,” she whispers, bending over him.

* * *

They make her bed theirs.

Later, with the remnants of Chinese take-out strewn across the coffee table, they make her couch theirs too.

The next morning while Diana gets ready for work, Steve makes her eggs. She pulls on high heeled leather boots because they go well with the skirt she’s chosen. She doesn’t stop to consider what Steve might think of her shoes until she comes out into the kitchen and he openly stares at them, spatula in hand and mouth slack.

That’s when they make her dining table theirs.

All of a sudden she’s running late, and she’s never late. “I love you,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over his just before she hurries out the door. “Call me if you need me.”

It doesn’t hit her until she’s halfway to work, still smiling from the lingering warmth of him, that today is the first time she’s ever felt like man’s world was truly home.


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay:  
> 1) Sorry it’s late. It took FOREVER to write.  
> 2) This is SO much longer than it was supposed to be. Sorry about that, too.  
> 3) Thanks for coming along for the ride. You have been so very kind, and I am so very appreciative.  
> 4) The whole time I was writing the first section of this, I kept thinking “Oh, that would’ve been fun to write” and “Oh, I bet that was dramatic” and “OMG how hilarious I kind of want to write that.” And then I thought well, you know, I COULD write that. But I’m not really feeling up to plotting another long story, and I certainly do not have the time, so here’s the deal:  
> There’s going to be a follow-up story. (I guess that makes this a series then?) The chapters will be standalone one-shots that take place at various points during the two year time jump. These one-shots will NOT be posted in chronological order, and I will NOT be posting once a week/every week like I was. But there are some things that I want to write. So, if you’re interested, keep an eye out.

On the 21st of December in the year 2019, exactly 671 days after Barry Allen ran him one hundred years into the future, Captain Steve Trevor becomes immortal.

The twenty-two months leading up to that day are filled with a cavalcade of lessons. He learns practical things: how to wash clothes without shrinking them, how to use the microwave to feed himself when Diana isn’t home, and how to pay for things with his bank card. He learns League-related things: how to drive everything from a helicopter to a humvee, how to fire a modern machine gun, how to hack computers and diffuse bombs and steal a nuclear warhead from a terrorist cell by pretending to be the head of a Russian crime syndicate. He learns about pop culture: Harry Potter and Game of Thrones, memes and emojis and GIFs.

He learns interesting details about each of the members of the League: Barry is almost always late unless you promise him food; Clark _loves_ to play board games, especially Monopoly and Catan; Vic loves European football as much as he loves American football and is a diehard Arsenal fan; Arthur’s wife is a badass, and perhaps the only person in the world capable of making him think before he speaks; Bruce likes a brand of dark chocolate that’s only made in Belgium and he smiles—actually _smiles_ —every time Steve brings him a box of it.

He learns a lot about himself, too. He learns what kind of music he likes (jazz, soul, and country) and what kind he doesn’t (he doesn’t care for opera—though he’s sat through one or two because Diana is fond of them—nor does he understand rap, though he admires the skill it takes to perform both). He loves to read murder mysteries, especially anything written by Agatha Christie. He sings in the shower. He likes to sleep in. He loves Chinese food, hates Indian food, and will inhale an entire bowl of guacamole in a matter of minutes if Diana does not arch an eyebrow at him and pull the bowl in her direction so she can have some too. He doesn’t understand modern dancing ( _That is not dancing, Diana, that is sex with clothes on_ ), online dating ( _How do you know that’s even a real picture of them?_ ), or fruit smoothies ( _Why can’t you just eat a bowl of fruit, why would you smash it all up like that? That’s barbaric._ )

And then, of course, there is what he’s learned about Diana.

She likes to wear high heels. She doesn’t need to wear coats and doesn’t like to, but she wears them anyway so that people won’t stare. She likes being outside regardless of the weather, but the early days of spring—when it’s still chilly but the flowers are trying valiantly to bloom—are her favorite. She likes to cook during the week and eat out on the weekends. She likes when he sings low in her ear while they are dancing. She does not like when he goes on missions without her, though she would never say so. She likes flowers, and chocolate, and any movie starring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. She did not like when he buzzed his hair, hates when he drinks milk straight from the carton, and crinkles her nose in disapproval if he wears socks to bed.

Working with her in this century has turned out to be pretty similar to working with her in the last. She is just as compassionate as ever. She will not leave a place if there are people in need of help. She has no reservations whatsoever about kicking the ass of anyone who puts the safety or peace of others in jeopardy. On missions she is calm and strategic, a steadying force for the other members of the League. But every once in awhile there is a villain or a circumstance that seems to flip a switch deep within her, resulting in the kind of wrath that Steve saw after Ludendorff destroyed Veld. When it happens, they all stand back. When it is over, she needs space. She finds him when her anger has faded, and those are the moments when he has the privilege of taking care of her.

He’s fascinated by her habits and routines. He likes watching her put lipstick on, and he likes watching her stand in their closet, her hands on her hips, as she scans her clothes and tries to decide what to wear. On weekend mornings she drinks her tea on the terrace and watches the sunrise, and if he pulls himself out of bed and shuffles out to join her she will smile and cuddle close to him. Every other month, she special orders a new case of tea from China because she is a tea snob and drinks a ton of it. For all her teasing about his cursing, she does it just as much—she just does it in Greek. She has a favorite spot on the couch, a preferred side of the bed, and a favorite mug. When she is angry she clenches her jaw, when she is frustrated she presses her fingers to her temples, and if she finds something extremely funny she claps her hands together, throws her head back, and laughs.

Being in love with her is a study of contrasts. It is the most comfortable relationship he’s ever been in. She knows all of his secrets, even the dark ones he’s ashamed of, and though he wants to be the best man he can be for her, he has never felt like he needed to earn her love. She gives it freely, unconditionally, and gladly. But comfort does not equal complacency. It’s the most comfortable relationship he’s ever been in, but it is also the most intense. He died—or at least had every intention of doing so until Barry came along—hours after realizing he wanted to spend his life with her. She spent a century without him. It was traumatic for them both, and it has made it impossible for them to take each other for granted.

They’re not as inseparable or as desperate for each other as they were when he first came back. They don’t fight often, but when they do it is loud and passionate. She is not afraid to tell him that he’s wrong, but she’s also not afraid to apologize. Sometimes they don’t see each other for days at a time because of their jobs. Sometimes they have to force themselves not to talk about work on date nights. But there are still moments when they are tangled in bed, or in the middle of a battle, or even just sitting across from each other in a restaurant, when their eyes meet and the world narrows to just them and Steve thinks, _Every cell in my body is madly in love with this woman._

One day, Lois asks him what the best thing about living in the twenty-first century is.

“Diana,” he tells her.

She smiles. “Are you hoping I’ll tell her you said that?”

“No,” he replies. “I’m just answering your question.”

Later that night, Diana wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. “I hear I’m the best part of the twenty-first century,” she whispers. She is smiling against his lips.

He leans back and looks her in the eye. “You are,” he says sincerely.

Her smile fades. “Steve...”

He pulls her closer. “You are.”

* * *

Exactly one year after their conversation in the bathtub at the Four Seasons, Steve decides to bring up the subject of his immortality. It’s a Thursday. He makes her dinner (nobody heats up spaghetti sauce from a jar better than he does). He lights candles, and buys flowers, and turns his phone volume all the way up and then hits play on their playlist. He’s getting ready to go change into her favorite shirt when she opens the front door and walks in half an hour earlier than he expected her.

He freezes like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Diana zeroes in immediately on the dining table set for two, the pans on the stove, and the candles scattered throughout the apartment.

“What’s all this?” she asks, her lips curving upward as she closes the door behind her.

“You’re early,” he says dumbly.

She sets her purse down on the table in the entryway. “Would you like me to leave and come back later?”

“No,” he sputters.

She smiles at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement, and he has no choice but to cross the room and sweep her into his arms and kiss her soundly.

“Let me try that again,” he murmurs. He pulls her coat off her shoulders and hangs it on a hook nearby. Then he reaches up, tugs her hairband loose, buries his hands in her hair, and kisses her again.

“Hi,” he says afterward, grinning.

“Hi,” she laughs.

“I’m glad you’re home. I made you dinner.”

“I see that,” she says, leaning to the side to survey the kitchen. “What for?”

He shrugs. “Cause you’re pretty.”

She traces her fingers over the collar of his t-shirt. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with the fact that today is the day we decided to discuss your immortality.”

“Oh is that today?” he says innocently. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Liar,” she whispers with a smile.

Behind him, the first few bars of their favorite song begin to float out of his phone.

“Dance with me,” he says, taking a step back and holding out his hand.

She glances down at his hand. “You’re very sentimental for a spy.”

“My girlfriend likes it.”

“Lucky girl,” she murmurs, putting her hand in his.

“Lucky me,” he counters, pulling her close.

They sway slowly. He puts his mouth by her ear and sings along with Ray Charles. _I’m gonna love you, like nobody’s loved you, come rain or come shine._

During a lull in the song, Diana smoothes her hand across the nape of his neck. “Did you decide what you want?” she asks.

“You,” he answers. “Forever. But only if it’s what you want, too.”

“It is.”

He swallows around a nervous lump in his throat. “Are you sure? Because if you’re not, or if you think we need more time, we can wait. I’ll wait for you, Diana. I can’t wait a century like you did, but I’ll wait as long as I can.”

He’s babbling. After a year of being with her, it doesn’t happen much anymore. Of course it would resurface on the night he wants to be smooth and sure. He gets the feeling that even a thousand years from now, there are still going to be moments when she makes him stutter over himself.

She pulls away from him and then steps out of his embrace. He frowns, wondering if he’s said something wrong. “Diana?”

She doesn’t answer. She reaches into her purse, pulls out her phone, and taps the screen. After a moment she smiles up at him, and holds her phone out between them. He takes it from her and reads the screen.

It’s a text message to Bruce. _We’re ready for the book._

Bruce’s reply appears as Steve is reading. _I’m on it._

When Steve looks up at her again, she’s smiling. “I think we’ve waited long enough,” she whispers. “Don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just kisses her.

* * *

As it turns out, they have to wait even longer. Deciding they want the spell book is the easy part. Planning and executing the theft is harder. By April though, Bruce calls with the good news that he has the book in hand and Waller is none the wiser. Unfortunately, the good news is followed by some bad news—upon reading the spell, Constantine informs Bruce that he needs some very valuable and exceedingly rare magical artifacts in order to make the spell work.

For the next eight months, Steve and Diana trot around the globe hunting for what Constantine needs. Each of the members of the League offer to help, but Diana is adamant that she does not want them putting themselves in danger. Naturally, they ignore her and help anyway. Steve doesn’t feel as strongly about it as she does—he thinks that if the League wants to help then they should be able to, and he tells her so. They fight about it a few times, usually after dangerous missions when someone ends up battered and bruised. The disagreements end once and for all one night in Rome, when Steve looks at her from across their hotel room and says, _What they do is not up to you, Diana._ She’s annoyed that he uses her own words against her, but she does not argue.

During the first week of December, they find the last artifact. Bruce sends some couriers to pick it up and take it back to Gotham so Constantine can confirm it’s authenticity. Twenty-four hours come and go, but there’s no word from Bruce. Steve thinks he’s handling the suspense pretty well until Diana tells him he’s not.

He’s pretending to watch TV, but really he’s just staring at his phone and hoping it’ll ring. Diana passes behind him on her way to the kitchen, brushing her hand along his shoulders, and he jumps about a foot off the couch in surprise.

“By the gods, Steve,” Diana says, glancing down at him in amusement. “Do you need a drink?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine. You’re watching a soap opera.”

Steve glances at the TV and realizes that he is, in fact, watching a soap opera. “I just wanted to see if the couple gets together,” he lies.

“Which couple?”

“You know, the couple.” A man and a woman suddenly appear on screen, and Steve points. “See? Those guys.”

The man on the screen says to the woman in rapid French, _I’m your brother, Marguerite. It’s my job to protect you._

Diana arches an eyebrow at Steve.

“It’s incest,” Steve says. “Like Jaime and Cersei Lannister.”

Diana sighs and mutters under her breath in Greek as she makes her way around the couch.

“I am _not_ a ridiculous man,” Steve says to her.

She smiles at him as she lowers herself into his lap. “I used to think it was romantic that you learned Greek for me,” she tells him, draping her arms over his shoulders.

“It is romantic,” he insists. “Took me damn near forever. And it was clearly worth it, because otherwise I wouldn’t know all the terribly insulting things you say about me under your breath.”

“They are not all terribly insulting,” she points out.

He brandishes his index finger in her face. “Don’t you start with me, woman. You and your feminine wiles are trying to distract me from my soap opera and I will not have it. I need to find out if these two are going to overcome their parents’ disapproval of their forbidden love.”

She sighs. “Once you come up with a story you stick to it, I’ll give you that.”

“Shh,” he replies. “I think they’re going to make out.”

Diana rolls her eyes, plucks the remote off the table, and turns the TV off.

“Hey,” Steve protests.

“Hush,” she answers. And then she kisses him, her hands on either side of his face, her mouth slanting hotly against his. It’s the kind of kiss that sends a shock of desire racing down his spine, the kind that makes him briefly forget his own name and what year it is and anything, really, that isn’t her.

When she pulls back from his lips, he feels dazed. Judging by the look on her face, that is exactly what she was going for.

“Are you nervous that it won’t be authentic?” she whispers.

He nods. “Yeah.”

She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Me too.”

“Really?” he says, his hands smoothing over her waist. “Cause I don’t see you pretending to watch soap operas.”

“That’s because I was pretending to fold laundry,” she says, tilting her head toward their bedroom.

“Oh,” he says. _Idiot,_ he thinks. He should have checked in with her and asked how she was feeling. He should have folded the laundry for her. “How are you feeling?” he blurts out.

“Tired,” she answers with a smile. “We’ve been traveling the world almost every weekend for months. And as much as I love to go adventuring with you, it’s getting a little exhausting.”

He plays idly with a strand of her hair. “Yeah, it has been kind of hard to keep up with the League and do this. And you’ve got your job, too.” He frowns, and once again realizes he’s an idiot. “It’s probably been harder for you than for me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s been hard for us both,” she says. She traces her index finger along the Ohio State logo on his t-shirt. “I’ve been thinking it might be good for us to get away.”

“Like on a vacation?”

“Yes. They have been bothering me at work to set a good example for my department by taking days off so that vacation time does not accrue.”

“Workaholic,” he teases.

She smiles but does not disagree. “I thought maybe we could go on a trip together over the holidays. No artifact hunting, no League business. Just me and you.”

“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “Where?”

“Maybe the Alps?” she suggests. “There’s a little town that reminds me of Veld.”

“Or the beach,” he says. “Something that looks like Themyscira.”

She smiles. “Why don’t we do both? One week in the snow, and one week in the sun.”

“Deal,” he says, curling his fingers around her neck and pulling her down for a kiss.

That, of course, is when his phone buzzes.

It’s Bruce. _It’s authentic. Constantine says we got it all. When do you want to do it?_

Steve looks up at Diana. She smiles. “We can take the trips another time,” she says.

“No,” he objects. “One week in the Alps, pit stop in Gotham for the magic stuff, then one week at the beach.”

Her smile is stunning. “Deal.”

* * *

Their week in the Alps is a dream.

The moment they arrive, Steve can see why it reminds her of Veld. They stay in a little villa that juts out of the side of a mountain. They ski, and go ice skating, and wander through the town’s quaint little shops. They dance in the snow.

They spend most of their time in their villa, though. They cook together, and read books, and play cards, and binge watch some new sci-fi show that’s all the rage _._ They don’t spend a whole lot of time in bed, but they do have an awful lot of sex in an awful lot of places. By the end of the week, Steve is certain that he knows exactly what honeymoons are like for newlyweds. The promise of another glorious week of nothing but Diana—this time on the white sands and crystal blue waters of the Maldives—is thrilling.

But looming over the mental image of Diana rising out of the ocean in the tiniest of bikinis is the shadow of a complicated immortality spell, and a laundry list of all the things that could go wrong.

Bruce is in Tokyo on a business trip and Alfred is with him, so when Steve and Diana land in Gotham they have Bruce’s mansion to themselves. On Friday night, Diana wears the black lace lingerie they bought together during his first week in the twenty-first century. They sleep in the next morning. (Well, he sleeps in. She reads.) She wears nothing but his shirt when they steal out to the kitchen to make a late lunch. They laugh and make plans for the future and everything seems so bright and promising that as Steve follows her back to their bedroom he wonders what he was even worried about.

But then a winter storm rolls in, and it starts to snow. It reminds him of Veld, but not the good parts—not Diana’s smile, or her eyes lit by the firelight, or the first taste of her lips. Instead he remembers his desperation: The realization that he was falling in love and had a thousand reasons to stay alive but could still very likely die the next day. He _did_ die the next day. A hundred and two years later he’s still in love, and he’s got even more reasons to stay alive, but he can’t help but feel like the same tragedy that hovered just outside their door in Veld is hovering just outside their door now.

Diana goes suddenly quiet too. He knows she’s thinking the same thing. He reaches for her and she lets him pull her close but she is tense against him, closed off. He sets to work and she loosens, comes back from whatever distant place her mind had wandered to. The past week has been filled with laughter but there are no smiles now, no teasing. Last night they were playful but this afternoon they are frantic, desperate to make it count in case it’s the last chance they get, and when she breathes his name somewhere toward the end it sounds suspiciously like a sob.

For the second time in his life, he prays. _Please don’t take me from her._

Afterward, he lays sprawled across the bed with her body draped over his. She watches the sun set over the lake through the bedroom’s glass wall, but he watches her and admires the ethereal glow the fading light casts over her dark hair.

“We should get up,” she whispers eventually. She does not move. “Bruce is probably home by now, and the rest of the League will be here soon.”

He traces his fingers along her spine. “I’d rather stay here.”

She lifts her head. She sets her hand on his sternum and then rests her chin on the back of it, and when she smiles his heart skips a beat. “Me too,” she admits.

He brushes his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. “Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be at the beach. Nothing but me and you, the sun and the sand.”

“Like when we first met,” she murmurs.

He smiles. “Yeah. Except this time no angry Germans.”

“I don’t know,” she says, smirking a little. “Given the way our lives tend to go, I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow they showed up.”

“Me neither,” he laughs.

She lifts her free hand and runs her fingertips along his cheek. “Are you nervous?”

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “But I’m trying to focus on the positives. Like never getting gray hair. And the image of you in a very tiny black bikini.”

She smiles.

“Are _you_ nervous?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says simply.  

Her phone buzzes. She rises off of his chest to get it from the bedside table. “It’s Barry,” she says, staring down at the screen. “He wants to know whether we prefer colored or white lights on our Christmas trees.”

“What?” Steve says, puzzled.

Diana smiles as she types out a response. “I bet he’s planning to decorate the Batcave.”

Steve grins. “Bruce will kill him.”

“Probably.” She looks up at him. “Ready?”

He nods. “Ready.”

* * *

Diana stops in the kitchen to make some tea and catch up with Alfred, but Steve heads straight down to the Batcave. Bruce is the only member of the League there so far. He’s glowering at a monitor. Steve thinks idly that if he had a dollar for every time he found Bruce glaring at one of his screens, he’d probably be rich.

“Hey Bruce,” Steve says, stopping next to him.

“Steve,” Bruce greets, but does not look up.

“How was your trip?”

Bruce sighs. “Uneventful.”

“And by _uneventful_ you mean you had to be Bruce Wayne the whole time instead of Batman?”

Bruce smirks, but does not answer.

Steve grins. “Sounds relaxing.”

“Does it?”

Steve snorts. “How’s Selina?”

“Same as ever.” Bruce’s expression softens just the slightest bit, and Steve has to try very hard not to tease him about it. “I think she enjoyed the city,” Bruce adds quietly.

“Maybe she just liked being with you,” Steve suggests.

Bruce rolls his eyes, and finally looks away from the monitor. He glances over his shoulder. “Where’s Diana?”

“In the kitchen with Alfred.”

Bruce smiles knowingly. “Getting tea because she’s nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“And you?”

Steve sighs. He tries to find the words to describe how he feels without sounding like a sentimental fool, and then he decides he doesn’t care. “I don’t want to break her heart again.”

Bruce gets to his feet, and then puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Constantine is the best there is. I know he’s a jackass, but he knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t have asked him to do this if he wasn’t.”

Constantine suddenly materializes before them.

“Speak of the devil,” Bruce says, dropping his hand from Steve’s shoulder.

Constantine grins. “Hey Batty.” He looks over at Steve. “Trev.”

“Constantine,” Steve greets with a nod. “Thanks for being here.”

The con man glances around the Batcave. “Yeah, sure.”

“Everything you need is on the table downstairs,” Bruce says, gesturing toward the staircase.

Constantine strolls casually over to the glass wall and looks down toward the first floor. He glances at the table, then scans the rest of the Batcave. There are two faint frown lines between his eyebrows. He seems to be looking for something.

“Everything you asked for is there,” Steve says. “But if there’s something else you need—”

“Nah, mate, everything looks in order.” When he turns back to face them, he is tugging absently on his black tie. “Is it just the three of us for this little party, or are we expecting a crowd?”

That’s when Steve realizes that Constantine isn’t looking for something—he’s looking for _someone._ Steve can’t help but grin.

“What are you grinning at?” Constantine asks.

“She’ll be here,” Steve answers.

The sorcerer tries to smooth down some of the wilder strands of his hair, but is unsuccessful. “Who?” he asks. “Your mom?”

“He’s about to become immortal for her you jackass,” Bruce says. “At what point does it sink in for you that she’s off limits?”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about, mate,” Constantine says. “I was just asking a simple question about who all would be here. You know, waterboy, metal man—”

“Don’t call him that,” Bruce and Steve say in unison.

Constantine holds his hands up. “All right, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Constantine’s trench coat billows with a sudden gust of air, and Barry appears.

“Party don’t start ‘til Flash rolls in,” he announces, his arms thrown wide. He frowns. “This place looks like the Grinch’s lair. Where the heck is the Christmas tree?”

“Hey Bar,” Steve says, grinning.

Barry glances in Steve’s direction and then his eyes light up. He lunges forward and wraps Steve in a tight hug. “Oh captain, my captain,” he says. He leans back, his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and grins. “It’s been a gazillion years since I last saw those magnificent, ocean blue eyes.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Steve laughs.

“Does your better half know you’re stepping out on her for a scrawny kid with a patchy beard?” Constantine asks Steve. “Cause I feel like that’s something she oughta know. Might make her change her mind.”

“Give it a rest, Constantine,” Bruce sighs.

“You think my beard is patchy?” Barry asks, pawing at his face. He frowns at Steve.

“I think it’s coming in nicely,” Steve assures him. “Don’t you Bruce?”

Barry gives Bruce a hopeful look.

“Yeah, fine,” Bruce says.

Constantine snorts. “Bloody blind if you think that’s fine.”

“I bet Diana will like it,” Barry says, lifting his chin defiantly. “And I bet when she says she likes it you’ll suddenly change your mind.”

“Bollocks,” Constantine says.

“Hey, Bar, you’re actually on time today,” Steve says, nudging the speedster. “Well done.”

Barry grins. “Boss man becoming immortal? Can’t be late for that.” He glances around the Batcave. “Seriously though, Bruce. It’s four days until Christmas and you’re hosting a party and you can’t spruce the place up a bit?”

“I’m not hosting a party,” Bruce says.

Barry ignores him. He is grinning from ear to ear. “I can fix this.”

“Don’t,” Bruce warns.

“I came prepared.”

“Don’t you dare,” Bruce growls, but Barry is already gone.

For a moment the Batcave is filled with a haze of red, and then Barry reappears next to Steve with a miniature candy cane hanging from his mouth like a cigarette.

“I did it,” he announces proudly, his hands on his hips. “It’s done.”

Steve glances around. The Batcave is covered in Christmas decorations. There are lights everywhere, garland around each of the monitors, and cheerfully lit Christmas trees scattered throughout the first and second floor. There are wooden reindeer pulling a wooden sled and a stuffed Santa near the hallway leading to the elevator. The glass walls have been frosted to look like they are iced, and there is a six foot snowman sitting atop the Batmobile. Stockings with the names of each of the members of the League are hanging on the wall and seem to be stuffed with candy. Mariah Carey is wailing _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ from the speakers nearby.

“Damn it Barry,” Bruce says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Cheer up, dark knight,” Barry says, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Christmas and Steve’s going to spend forever with Diana. We’ve got a million reasons to celebrate. Candy canes for everyone!”

“This place looks like Santa got the flu and vomited up all his Christmas cheer,” Constantine mutters.

“Was just thinking the same thing,” Arthur says from the mouth of the stairwell.

“Arthur!” Barry shouts in glee. He zooms forward. “Candy cane?”

“Dude,” Vic says, stepping up the final stair behind Arthur. “What the heck is on your face?”

“It’s a beard,” Barry says.

“I know that,” Vic says. “But what’s it doing on your face?”

“Iris likes it,” Barry pouts, stroking his fingers over his beard.

“Kinda looks like those dead racoons you see on the side of the highway,” Arthur says, popping an unwrapped candy cane into his mouth.

Vic snorts. “Or like there’s a fuzzy caterpillar inching across his top lip.”

“Guys,” Steve admonishes.

Barry brandishes a candy cane in Vic’s face. “Diana will like it.”

“I don’t know man,” Vic says, snatching the candy cane from Barry’s hand. “I think even Diana’s going to hate that thing.”

“Jackass,” Barry mutters.

* * *

Diana can’t remember the last time she was this nervous.

Usually tea calms her. Alfred keeps the brand she likes, and when she enters the kitchen she finds him already holding a steaming tea kettle.

He smiles at her. “I thought you might want a cup.”

“You’re a saint, Alfred,” she tells him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Just trying to keep up with you, Miss Prince.”

He pours her a mug and she sips it, half-listening to a story about Bruce sassing some investors. It’s a funny story. She’s smiling. But her mind is elsewhere. What if something goes wrong? What if the spell doesn’t work? What if Constantine makes a mistake, or Steve’s body reacts badly to the magic?

What if she loses him again?

“Miss Prince?”

Diana snaps to attention. “I’m sorry, Alfred,” she murmurs. “What were you saying?”

He smiles kindly. “It doesn’t matter. Are you feeling nervous about tonight?”

She probably wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, but there is something about Alfred that she has always found reassuring. There are very few people she trusts more than him. “A little,” she admits.   
“I understand,” he says. “I wish I could offer you some comfort.”

Diana smiles and lifts her mug. “You have.”

“Knock knock,” Clark’s voice says.

Diana turns and sees him framed in the kitchen doorway. “Clark,” she says, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”

He grins. “I brought you a Christmas present.”

Lois leans out from behind Clark and smiles. “Hey.”

“Lois,” Diana breathes in surprise.

It might be because she hasn’t seen Lois in a while, or maybe it’s just because she’s already on edge about Steve and the spell, but Diana’s throat tightens at the sight of her friend. She crosses the room in a few quick strides and folds the reporter into a tight hug. Clark beams down at them, clearly pleased with himself, and Diana reaches her hand out to him. He squeezes it gently.

“What are you doing here, Lo?” Diana asks, leaning back. “I thought you had family obligations.”

“They can wait a day,” Lois says with a smile. “Besides, you are family.”

“And she says _I’m_ the sentimental one,” Clark murmurs, grinning at his wife.

Lois grins back, and Diana smiles at them. She puts a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m so glad you are both here. Steve will be thrilled.”

“Where is Steve?” Lois asks, glancing around the kitchen.

“Downstairs,” Diana answers. “We should probably head down as well.” She turns toward Alfred. “Ready, Alfred?”

“Certainly,” he answers.

The four of them head toward the Batcave. Lois asks how their trip to the Alps went, and Diana tells her about it as they ride the elevator down. When they step off, they all stop dead in their tracks.

“Is that...is that a stuffed Santa in a sleigh?” Lois asks. “And do I hear music? And oh my _god,_ the windows are _frosted._ This place looks like a damn Hallmark movie.” She looks at Alfred with wide eyes. _“_ Is Bruce on drugs?”

“Barry’s here,” Diana and Clark say in unison, grinning at each other.

“I think I can hear Master Wayne’s blood pressure rising,” Alfred notes dryly.

They round the corner to find the entire League and Constantine standing in a circle. Arthur’s booming laugh fills the room, echoed by Vic’s.

“What’s so funny?” Clark asks.

Everyone turns toward them and the room is suddenly filled with a chorus of greetings. Diana barely has time to smile at them all before Barry speeds straight into her arms.

“Oh,” she says in surprise, clutching his shoulders as she takes a step back so that he doesn’t bounce off of her and hurt himself. Then she wraps her arms around him and squeezes. “Hi Barry. I missed you too.”

“You’re, like, the goddess of truth, right?” he mutters in her ear, his arms tight around her.

“Yes,” she answers. She tries to lean back, but he holds her closer.

“So you’d tell me the truth? Even if it hurt my feelings?”

“Yes,” Diana says. “Barry, what is going on?”

She pushes him back from her body and finally gets a glimpse of his face and the beard adorning his cheeks and jawline.

“Oh, _Barry,_ ” she says in delight. She brushes her hand over his cheek. “You look so handsome.”

“For god’s sake,” Arthur groans, throwing up his hands.

“Told you,” Steve says.

“You can’t be serious, Di,” Vic says around a candy cane. “He looks ridiculous.”

“He does not,” Diana chastises. She brushes her hand over Barry’s cheek again. “I like it.”

Barry beams. “Iris does too.”

“Of course she does,” Diana says indulgently.

“The guys think it looks patchy,” Barry tells her gloomily.

Diana fixes the group of men with an unimpressed look, and they all look slightly abashed—except Steve, who just winks at her. Diana knows he’s probably the only one who wasn’t making fun of Barry. She glances at Lois. “Lo?”

“I think it looks great,” Lois says with a grin. She tips her head in the direction of the League. “Besides, who are you going to believe, Barry? The women who actually know what women like, or the frat boys who just think they do?”

Clark laughs loudly.

“I, for one, think it makes him look distinguished,” Constantine announces.

Diana casts an appreciative smile in the sorcerer’s direction.

“Don’t look at him like that,” Barry tells her. “He’s only saying that cause you’re here. You should’ve heard him five minutes ago.”

“Oh come on, mate, was just having a bit of good natured fun,” Constantine says. He sidles closer to them, tugging on his tie. He winks at Diana. “Nice to see you, darlin.”

“Hello, John,” Diana greets. “New tie?”

Constantine smoothes his hand over the black tie that’s identical to every other tie Diana has ever seen him wear. “Yes, thank you for noticing. _Some_ people don’t appreciate when you make an effort.”

He casts a meaningful glance at Bruce. Bruce rolls his eyes. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he says. “The sooner this is over the sooner Barry has to take all this crap down.”

“Oh come on, Bruce,” Diana says with a smile. “I know you’ve got some Christmas spirit in there somewhere.”

“I’ve got enough to go around,” Barry announces proudly. “If it’s not in him yet, I’m going to put it in him before the night is done.”

Arthur chokes on his candy cane.

Barry frowns. “That sounded way dirtier than I meant it.”

“You’re going to take every piece of this crap down as soon as we’re done,” Bruce tells him.

“No way,” Barry scoffs. “I brought eggnog and Christmas cookies, I made the greatest Christmas playlist known to man, _and_ I bought everyone presents. We’re going to have a Christmas party for the ages.”

“No,” Bruce growls.

“Speak for yourself,” Arthur says. “I like eggnog.”

“I like Christmas cookies,” Clark adds with a shrug.

“What kind of presents?” Vic asks.

Bruce sighs and casts a frustrated look at Steve. Steve grins. “We can talk about all that later, guys. Right now, let’s get started.” He looks at Constantine. “You need a minute to get everything ready?”

“Yeah,” Constantine answers. He glances at Diana out of the corner of his eye. “And maybe a helper.”

“I can help,” Clark says brightly, stepping forward.

Constantine sighs. “Great.”

Lois snickers. Constantine and Clark head for the stairwell, and everyone else follows. Diana lingers behind, greeting each of the members of the League as they pass her by.

Steve is the last of the group, and he weaves his fingers through hers as he comes up beside her. “You get some tea?” he murmurs, tilting forward to press a kiss to her temple.

“Yes,” she answers, leaning into him.

The last of the crowd disappears down the stairwell, leaving Diana and Steve alone on the second floor. Diana turns toward him. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close. She presses her forehead against his and closes her eyes, and they stand there for a moment in silence, breathing each other in.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know,” Steve whispers.

Diana shakes her head. “Steve, don’t.”

“I love you,” he says anyway. “So much.”

“Save it for the beach,” she whispers, leaning back.

He smiles. “And every day for the rest of forever.”

“Yes, every day,” she repeats.

She doesn’t want to tell him goodbye. She wants to be positive and assume the best, wants to force everything to turn out okay just by sheer force of will, but it haunted her for a century that she didn’t tell him how she felt before he climbed on that plane. She won’t make the same mistake twice.

“I love you too,” she whispers, holding his face in her hands.

She kisses him, and sends a prayer up to any of her relatives who might still be hanging around. _Please don’t take him from me._

“Come on,” she whispers when she pulls away. “Let’s go make you immortal.”

They descend the staircase hand in hand. An anxious hush has fallen over their friends. Constantine is using his lighter to start a fire inside of a metal bowl sitting before him on the circular wooden table. There is a large circle drawn in chalk on the table, and various runes sketched inside. The artifacts they spent months collecting are scattered within the chalk circle, each one sitting on top of the same white rune.

Constantine looks up at Steve. “Unbutton your shirt, mate.”

“You could at least buy him dinner first,” Barry jokes halfheartedly. Nobody laughs.

Steve lets go of Diana’s hand, but only long enough to unbutton his shirt. He weaves his fingers through hers again as soon as he’s done.

Constantine pulls a thick, black pencil from the pocket of his trench coat. He sketches a large, intricate rune on Steve’s chest, and then a series of smaller ones right over his heart. Diana’s eyes linger on the faded white scars beneath the black lines of Constantine’s marks. She tries not to think about all the times she almost lost Steve, and the one time she actually did.

Constantine slips the pencil back in his pocket. “Up on the table. Put your head between these two marks so that the bowl is by your left ear.”

Steve glances at Diana. She squeezes his hand, and gives him a reassuring smile. He lets go of her and climbs up onto the table. Diana feels the loss of contact immediately. She watches him longingly, wishing she could hold him through the spell.

“You can’t touch him, darlin,” Constantine says quietly, as though he can read her mind. He gestures at the space in front of Steve’s head. “But you can stand as close as you can get. Just don’t touch the table.”

Diana steps up next to the table. Steve’s head is just in front of her, the rest of his body stretched out over the table and down the middle of the chalk circle. It would be so easy to reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead, to lean down and press her lips to his skin. She’s dying to touch him.

Steve grins up at her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says quietly.

Constantine pulls his trench coat off and holds it out to Bruce. “Hold this, Batty.”

Bruce looks annoyed, but takes the coat. Constantine rolls his sleeves up and then loosens his tie. He turns toward Clark, and cups his hands. “Pour it in there,” he says.

Clark empties a packet of greenish powder into Constantine’s hands. Constantine nods his head. “Now the book.”

Clark holds the book out in front of Constantine. “Here?” he asks.

“Yeah. Don’t move it.” He glances around at the group of people in the room. “You lot need to be silent and still. Nobody touches Trevor. You break the boundary of the circle, you cause hellish mayhem. Understand?”

Everyone nods.

Constantine looks at Diana. “He’s going to look like he’s in pain. He’s going to yell like he’s in pain. He probably _will_ be in pain. Don’t talk to him. You can’t say a word. And you can’t touch him, no matter what.”

“I understand,” Diana says.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Trev?” he asks, glancing down at Steve.

Diana looks down at Steve and finds that his eyes are fixed on her. “I’m ready,” he says.

Constantine takes a deep breath. “Right. Let’s do this.”

He presses his hands together and holds them out above Steve’s chest, then closes his eyes and begins to chant in Latin. Diana understands every word, but that doesn’t help. She watches Steve, every fiber in her being wanting to reach for him. He holds her gaze.

Constantine chants louder. The white runes on the table start to glow, and the chalk circle appears to be wiggling. The temperature of the room seems to drop. The fire in the metal bowl next to Steve’s head sparks, roars upward into a flame that’s significantly taller than the bowl, and then turns a very vivid shade of green.

Constantine pulls his hands apart and opens them wide, and a cloud of powder hovers briefly over Steve and then starts to fall. When the first specks of powder settle onto the runes on Steve’s chest, his eyes slam shut and his body arches violently off the table. The flame turns purple, and Steve howls in pain.

Diana feels as though someone has shoved a searing hot knife right through the center of her chest. She leans toward Steve immediately, desperate to comfort him, but a pair of strong hands curl around her elbows. She knows instantly that it’s Bruce. She could easily break away from him. She doesn’t.  

Steve collapses onto the table. “Diana,” he moans.

Diana presses her lips together so she won’t answer. Constantine’s chant turns into a guttural growl. His fingers curl slightly, the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands, and then Steve arches up again, his eyes flown wide as he gasps.

Diana struggles to remember how to breathe. Constantine is still chanting, his arms still extended over Steve’s prone form. The fire turns blood red. The white circle vibrates harder. Steve cries out again. The runes sketched over his heart start to seep thick drops of blood that ooze down his chest. He writhes in pain, his fingers clawing at the table for something to hold onto.

“Diana,” he gasps. “Diana, _please._ ”

Diana leans forward, tears hot behind her eyes, but Bruce’s hands tighten on her arms. Constantine claps once and shouts in Latin. He claps again and shouts the same thing. When his hands clap together for a third time, a wave of energy rushes out from the circle and through the room. The fire in the bowl extinguishes immediately, and every single light in the Batcave flickers off.

For a moment, they are in complete and utter darkness. Constantine is silent. Bruce’s hands loosen on Diana’s arms. The lights flicker back on.

Steve is spread-eagle on the table, but his body has been spun around—his feet, not his head, are what’s closest to Diana now. His eyes are closed. His chest is bloody, but the runes are gone from his skin. The room is deathly silent. Constantine lowers his hands.

“Trev,” he calls softly.

Steve does not move.

Diana strains against Bruce’s grip. _Please wake up,_ she thinks. _Please, Steve._

“Trevor,” Constantine calls, sharper this time.

Steve still does not move.

“Get _up,_ ” Constantine bellows, clapping his hands just above Steve’s feet.

Steve bolts upright. His hands are curled into fists, but instead of making a thudding noise when they slam down onto the table, they smash right through the wood and leave a pair of gaping, jagged holes.

Behind Diana, someone gasps and several people curse. Steve gapes down at the table in surprise.

“God, I’m good,” Constantine mutters smugly.

Steve looks up at Diana, his eyebrows furrowed, but she just stares at him, stunned. He pulls his hands out of the holes and holds them in front of his face.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

His gaze flickers over to the metal bowl that the fire had been lit in. He reaches out, grabs hold of the bowl, and bends it in half as though it was made of clay.

“Holy _shit,_ ” he murmurs, his eyes wide.

Diana rounds immediately on Constantine, wraps her fingers around his throat, and hauls him straight into the air.

“What did you do?” she snarls.

Constantine claws at her hand, his eyes bulging, his legs swinging helplessly beneath him. He does not answer her.

Diana tightens her hold. “I swear on the gods, John Constantine, if you don’t—”

“Diana,” Steve calls.

Diana turns immediately toward him but does not let go of Constantine.

Steve has scooted to the edge of the table, and his legs are hanging over the side. His blue eyes are bright, and he is smiling. “It’s okay.” He holds his arms out. “I’m okay.”

Diana turns back to Constantine. “Can I cross the circle?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

She drops him immediately, and he crumples onto the floor in a gasping heap. She catapults herself into Steve’s arms. Steve laughs, his hands smoothing over her back. “That didn’t even hurt,” he tells her. “Usually you feel like a freight train.”

“How sweet,” Diana mutters into the curve of his shoulder.

He laughs again. She pulls back, but before she can say anything else he kisses her, his hands holding her face and his mouth eager against hers.

“I think I ship them harder than I ship my own relationship,” Barry sighs from somewhere behind Diana.

“Can you ship your own relationship?” Vic wonders.

“The hell is shipping?” Arthur asks.

Diana pulls back from Steve’s lips, laughing. Steve grins at her, his eyes wide and filled with joy. She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Hi,” she whispers.

“Hey angel,” he whispers back. He rarely calls her that in front of other people, and there isn’t even a trace of a blush on his cheeks, and so Diana kisses him again, her heart so full she thinks it might burst.

“Do you feel okay?” she murmurs afterward.

“I feel like I can bend metal,” he answers.

“You did just ruin that bowl,” Barry observes.

“Yes, about that,” Diana says, rounding on Constantine.

He is still on his knees on the floor. He holds up his hand. “Please don’t,” he rasps. “Your hand is like a goddamn vise.”

Diana reaches for her hip and sends her lasso flying in his direction. It wraps around his wrist. “What did you do, John?”

“Shit, that’s hot,” Constantine says, staring down at the glowing cord wrapped around his wrist in wonder. He blinks up at Steve. “Bloody hell, Trev, do you two use this thing in the bedroom?”

Steve brushes his fingers lightly along Diana’s shoulder blades. She tries not to smile.

“For fuck’s sake,” Bruce sighs, glaring down at Constantine in disgust.

“Not really his fault,” Vic points out. “He has to tell the truth.”

“His truth is making me uncomfortable,” Barry says, glancing at Diana and Steve. “I like to think they just kiss and hold hands.”

“What are you, twelve?” Arthur snorts.

“Answer the question, John,” Diana says, ignoring them. “What did you do to Steve?”

“Exactly what I said I’d do,” Constantine answers immediately. “The decelerated aging spell.”

“And?”

He shrugs. “And I threw in some extra stuff. Tis the season, you know.”

“What do you mean, _extra stuff_?” Diana asks.

“Strength,” Constantine says, glancing at the crumpled metal bowl. “Speed.” He looks at Barry. “Not like you. Just, you know, reflexes and such. Rapid healing. They’re pretty simple spells when you’ve got all these artifacts. It’s what the little runes over his heart were for.”

Diana glances over at the drying blood on Steve’s chest.

“Are they permanent?” she asks.

“Well, yeah,” Constantine says. “Temporary powers would just be cruel. I’m a lot of things, darlin, but I’m not cruel.”

“So Steve’s a superhero!” Barry declares with a grin.

“You should have asked,” Diana tells Constantine sternly.

Constantine scoffs. “Right, like you’d have taken me up on it. You two are the most disgustingly selfless people I’ve ever met, and that includes tall, dark, and broody over here.”

He jerks his head in Bruce’s direction. Bruce looks incensed.

“You had no right,” he snarls at Constantine. “You could have killed him.”

“What’s the bloody point of being immortal if any old thing can kill you?” Constantine asks, staring up at Bruce. “Woulda been a waste of all our time if I stopped him from aging and then he went and got hit by a bus.”

“Would the bus just bounce right off him like it does Clark and Diana?” Barry asks with wide eyes.

“Dunno,” Constantine says with a shrug. “We could give it a try, though. If he kicks the bucket maybe I can get Legs to have hate sex with me.”

The entire League gapes at Constantine, who has the grace to look at least a little embarrassed by his lasso-induced declaration.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to punch someone so badly in my entire life,” Lois says.

“Did you just call her _Legs_?” Vic asks, his metallic shoulders straightening in anger.

Diana flicks her wrist and coils the lasso back at her side. “Let it go, Vic.”

“And you guys thought _I_ was a dick,” Arthur mutters.

“You and I are going to have a talk about this later,” Bruce snarls at Constantine.

Constantine gets to his feet and dusts his hands off on his pants. “It’s not my fault she’s got a golden whip that makes people say stuff.”

“You know what would make everyone feel better?” Barry asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Eggnog! What do you say, Steve? You want to rock around the Christmas tree?”

Steve grins. “Sure.”

“Heck yes,” Barry says. “Come on guys, I got you presents!”

He bounds up the stairs. The rest of the League trails after him including Constantine, who is rolling his eyes as Bruce mutters at him threateningly.

Once again, Diana finds herself alone with Steve. He rises off the table and steps into her arms. She dabs at the blood on his chest with her sleeve.

“Are you okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” he says. “Can’t even feel it anymore.”

She raises her eyes to meet his. “How bad did it hurt?”

“Bad,” he admits. He gives her a crooked smile. “Worth it, though,” he murmurs.

Diana’s heart flutters in her chest. She leans forward and presses her mouth to his. Somewhere upstairs, _You’re A Mean One Mr. Grinch_ starts to pulse out of the speakers. Arthur roars in laughter.

“We should go upstairs,” Diana says.

“In a minute,” Steve murmurs, his hand slipping lower on her back. His tongue trails along her bottom lip and she opens her mouth to him. She’s never going to get tired of this, she realizes. Never.

Eventually, she pulls away. “I love you,” Steve tells her.

She smiles. “Still?”

He brushes her hair back the way he had when they danced in the snow in Veld, and gives her a breathtaking smile. He dips his mouth toward hers. “Always,” he whispers in Greek the moment before their lips meet again.

_Yes,_ Diana thinks as she lifts her arms to wind around his neck. _Always._


End file.
